


too late to do right

by gildedfrost



Series: sea of stars [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Prey (Video Game 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Aliens, Angst, Apocalypse, Digital Art, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23305402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost
Summary: Two years ago, the world went to hell when hostile aliens arrived. The year before that, Hank met Connor.It doesn't ever occur to Gavin that the two events could be related.
Relationships: Connor/Gavin Reed, Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson/CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60
Series: sea of stars [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902712
Comments: 55
Kudos: 137





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Name is from "The Balancer's Eye" by Lord Huron. The whole Vide Noir album has some decent vibes for this fic.
> 
> This fic is aimed at the DBH audience, with the expectation that some readers are completely unfamiliar with Prey; Prey-specific lore and worldbuilding will be introduced within the fic. Characters from Prey are not featured.

Connor breathes.

Detroit’s air fills his lungs with the practiced motion. Inhale, exhale. It feels cool within him and tastes like the tang of a city throwing smog into the sky, a flavor that tells him this is home, a place filled with humans and their cars, people living active lives in a bustling metropolis.

A single bird sings in the woods beyond the abandoned park he sits in. The wooden bench is cold and cracked, rust setting into the metal frame. Weeds poke out through the cracks in the pathway and litter dots the overgrown grass. A basketball court in the distance stands empty.

Across it all float strands of golden mist, a network of threads branching throughout the park like a haphazard conglomeration of cobwebs. Closely grouped filaments glow a soft, bright yellow, while those stretching further out transition into deeper colors: Orange, red, and colors beyond the scope of human visibility. It’s warmer than the cool autumn breeze passing through.

He reaches out a hand to the threads of coral, as it’s been named, and closes his eyes as his fingers pass through it, calling forth memories that are not his own.

_A tiny object shifts between the bushes, movements quick and jittery, pausing as the viewer shifts. It breathes quickly and its temperature is hot; a living creature. Tiny, with beady eyes; a rodent. A stripe down its back; a chipmunk. It darts away. The viewer does not pursue._

A phrase without visual: _“--no idea what he’s on about. I told you, we covered exactly what was on the agenda, and it’s not my fault if he wanted to focus on the standardization process because that’s scheduled for next week--”_

_A torrent of movement in one direction at a steady pace, disorganized warm flickers beneath the surface and bright dancing lights atop it. It is dark despite the daylight. Water--deep, cold, and flowing. Filled with life._

The memories fade as quickly as they came when he retracts his hand. He can hear more of them like echoes at such a close proximity, beckoning him closer like the promise of a warm blanket, asking him to partake and share. The memories are simple, factual, absent of emotion and interpretation except for what he experiences when encountering them, but they still make him feel connected. Wanted. Known.

He reminds himself to breathe.

His boots scrape against the dry dirt under the brown grass as he shifts in his seat. Movement in the distance catches his eye as he bounces his leg restlessly: A smudge in the distance, moving quickly yet casually as it explores this environment. This one must be new; it pokes about at its surroundings curiously.

A mimic.

Its appearance is little more than a near-formless body with four legs, made up of a substance like a viscous black goo with an oily sheen, thick and thin cords of it woven together to piece together this creature that some have compared to an insect. The edges of its form waver like they aren’t fully solid, giving the impression that it’s shivering, and it does indeed look like it is compelled to keep moving, unable to unwilling to still itself in the absence of danger.

It knows Connor isn’t human, that he will neither hurt it nor has any reason to be hurt by it. So it ignores him, crawling along in its own speedy way, quick in a manner that unnerves humans.

Connor likes it out here in the park. At the edge of Detroit, smothered in a cloud of coral like a down blanket, he feels welcome. There isn’t any mask he needs to wear, but neither is there death now that humans have retreated, abandoning this corner to the typhon. To his species.

Two years ago, typhon began arriving on Earth in droves, carving out a space for themselves as efficiently as they could. Towns were overrun and humans were killed at terrible rates. Technology was built to handle them quickly. First by TranStar as a last-ditch effort at salvaging their credibility; people believed it to be their fault that typhon made it to Earth, after their extensive experimentation in using typhon to create Neuromods, expensive tools used to, essentially, inject knowledge or skill right into a human’s brain. KASMA Corp and CyberLife rose up amid the panic, both positing themselves as saviors with their technologies while still setting themselves up for profit as corporations are wont to do.

CyberLife’s advanced AI systems and reserves of wealth won out. Now it’s not unusual to find typhon scanners in remodeled buildings or common areas, among other defense systems, and police and military units that can afford it have been outfitted appropriately. 

Connor is pulled out from his thoughts by the buzzing of his cell phone in his pocket. Immediately he recalibrates his form, perfecting the human mimicry and regretting his momentary lapse in focus. The mimic he was watching vanishes, replaced by a stone suspiciously similar to the one next to it, the constant movement turning into perfect stillness. 

He chuckles. Both of them in a space where they can exist freely without threat of harm to themselves or others, and yet a simple device scares them into hiding.

“Hello?” he answers, voice loud in the stillness of the park.

“Hey.” It’s a gruff voice on the other end. Hank. “I’m just checking in. No one’s heard from you all day and you’re not at work. You doing alright? Got yourself somewhere safe?” His tone is casual but there’s a clear edge of concern in his voice. 

“I’m okay, Hank. Please don’t worry about me.” 

“There’s a couple more bodies today and a few more of the slimy bastards are getting confident. There’s more alien guts on the ground than I ever wanted to see. Where are you at?”

He shares a glance with his mimic companion as if the other can understand him, knowing that it can’t, not truly. It can understand exasperation, but empathy? 

Empathy’s what sets the ones like him apart.

His eyes drift over the coral that makes this park into a dreamlike landscape. Humans consider it an omen, a harbinger of death, and that’s not an inaccurate perception. Where typhon go, coral follows soon after, woven by the weavers for the benefit of their species.

“I’m at a park. I’ll make my way home before the sun goes down and check in with you then.”

“Which park?”

Connor sighs. “See you, Hank.”

“Which goddamn--”

“I’m safe. Goodbye.” He hangs up and tucks the phone away, lacing his fingers together as he leans forward on the bench, watching the mimic resume its exploration,

Hank’s never stopped worrying about him, not since meeting him three years ago at a crime scene, covered in blood near the victim and looking shell-shocked. They kept in touch and developed a friendship, supporting each other through Connor’s struggles, the loss of Hank’s son, and the typhon invasion.

Now that they both have their feet on the ground, they’re struggling to stay out of danger. Life won’t give them a break.

Connor looks down at his hands, eyes skimming over every perfectly mimicked detail. Life… What a funny thing.

He wonders, not for the first time, if he fits the definition of alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beautiful art is by Auspice! It perfectly captures the mood I was going for, it's really just fantastic. (Art links: [Tumblr](https://ausp-ice.tumblr.com/post/613699226799570944/)/[DA](https://www.deviantart.com/ausp-ice/art/Omen-835305052))
> 
> If you'd like a clear visual of what I imagine when Connor & co. lose some control over their forms, check out [this art](https://twitter.com/ausp_ice/status/1302726555697778688) (collab by myself and Auspice).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen it yet, there's now [art](https://ausp-ice.tumblr.com/post/613699226799570944/) for the first chapter!

“It’s… blue.”

“It sure as shit is,” Sixty says, looking smugly over his shoulder at Markus. A dollop of paint drops off the roller, hitting the floor with a _splat,_ and Markus winces. 

“But--”

“If you’re not gonna fix this wall, I am. It’s hideous. It’s been an absolute disaster since day one and you know it.”

“I think we should have peeled the wallpaper first,” Josh whispers, and North slowly nods her head in agreement.

“I think it looks as good as can be expected,” Simon says, wearing a diplomatic smile. He has a few too many teeth. “It has taken us a while to decide on what to do with the walls.”

The wall is lumpy, bright blue paint covering up most of the faded, deteriorating wallpaper that decorates most of the house. It’s been a point of contention in recent weeks as the group of them have bickered about how to fix up the house after having neglected it for years. Sixty knows he hasn’t done the best job of it, but someone had to make an executive decision. He wasn’t about to listen to another argument about wallpaper, of all things, and he had enough cash lying around to justify buying paint.

Not that he had to buy it, in the end, not with so many abandoned and boarded up stores just waiting to be broken into.

The lukewarm response he gets is about what he expected. “Any objections?” he asks, turning to face them. Paint drips onto his shoe. 

“We’ll peel the rest of the walls tonight,” Markus says before North can speak. “Then we’ll decide on a color for each room. Sound good?”

“Sounds great. Good work, Sixty,” Josh says. He pats Sixty on the shoulder as he passes through to the kitchen, where Nines can be heard tapping away at his keyboard. The others follow, muttering amongst themselves. 

Sixty resumes painting the wall, slathering paint across it as best he can. They’ve been squatting in this house for the better part of the past two years, ever since the neighboring part of town was overrun by typhon. Looking at it optimistically, it’s an improvement over skulking in alleyways and hiding in warehouses, but there’s still mold in the corners and other parts of the house are falling apart. They have human neighbors, but only just; most have fled because it’s a dangerous place to be, evident by the coral encroaching on the neighborhood. Anyone else around here is only staying because they have nowhere else to go. At least that means nobody pays too much attention to them. It would be unfortunate if anyone identified them as typhon. 

“How’d it go?” Sixty asks, dipping the roller into the tray of paint. They can still hear him in the kitchen, and he can hear them finding something to eat. “Find anyone who cared to listen?”

Markus reappears around the corner, leaning against the edge of the wall. He looks tired. “No. You know what they say about leading horses to water.”

“Did you try using the coral?”

“You know that doesn’t work,” Markus says. “Not on its own. Empathy isn’t exactly something we can pass along like that.”

Sixty covers a spot he missed earlier, smudging paint over the floral wallpaper. “So how’d you present it to them? What’d you do, ask them to roll over and show their necks? Tell them they’re morally bankrupt if they don’t stop eating?”

Markus sighs. “What do you want me to do, Six? Inspiring words just won’t cut it. They don’t care.”

It isn’t like Sixty isn’t aware how difficult Markus’ self-assigned task is, he’s just far less optimistic. Empathy is unnatural for their species, especially being predators as they are. They feed off of consciousness and use sentient creatures as a medium for reproduction, whether the mitotic division of mimics or the conversion of another being, like a human, into a typhon. That the lot of them can experience the same depth of emotion as a human is an anomaly; that they refuse to harm humans and choose to share their forms, even more so. 

Asking the others of their species to stop evolving and reproducing isn’t something he expects to go over well. 

“The collective gains nothing from listening to you, and I’ve never met a mimic who ascribes to individualism. You might as well be yelling at a brick wall.”

“And keeping your head down is any better?” Markus shakes his head. “I may not have gotten far, but I’ll get some of them to listen. They have the capacity to learn. If they don’t listen… well, who knows? Maybe I could mod them myself.”

“They don’t have a brain. For that matter, neither do you.”

He laughs. “I could figure something out.”

“Have fun with your neuroscience, then. I’ll just be fixing the house up.” Sixty gestures to the wall with the roller, watching as Markus returns to the kitchen.

Neuromods. They’ve fallen out of fashion ever since Talos I, TranStar’s space station, was overrun by typhon two years ago, right before the invasion. Some people still use them--rich people without care for ethics--but it’s become common knowledge that they experimented with typhon to build neuromods. Not so common knowledge that the space station has been a site of alien experimentation since it was built in the 1950s, but there’s sure to be someone getting their hands on those documents soon enough.

What hasn’t leaked--and probably never will, since most of those who were on the station are now dead--is that their scientists put human criminals into test chambers to act as typhon food. “Working at Talos I is a chance at redemption,” TranStar had said. “A way to help us work towards a better, brighter future.”

The human whose body Sixty was made from had the same story, which he knows only through fragments of memory. Volunteer V-081555-60 and his brothers (V-081555-51 and V-111255-87) were prisoners from the Russian gulags, given the hope of freedom after three years of service on Talos I. Instead, after a year of menial labor, scientists put the three in a tank with a weaver, a larger variety of typhon. It’s strange, to hold the memory of his birth alongside the memory of grief and death, and to feel wholly typhon while also knowing how it feels to be human.

It’s no wonder the station was overrun, anyway. The security was poor enough that the entire group of them created that day was able to escape some months later through simple mimicry.

“You’re thinking too hard.”

Sixty blinks, realizing that he’s been painting the same spot for five minutes now. He lowers his arm and turns to see Connor. “You know these guys eat three meals a day?” he asks, jabbing his thumb at the kitchen. “Who does that?”

“It’s a very human habit, isn’t it? About as human as wanting a nice-looking house.”

“I just want some peace and quiet.”

“I think you want a home.” Connor smiles warmly, and he has just the right amount of teeth, as usual. “It looks good.”

“You’re fucking right it does. Better than that shitty wallpaper.” Sixty shifts the roller to his other hand, shaking the first, as black, effervescent tendrils wrap around his arm. They disappear, leaving him looking fully human again, and he flexes his hand. “Shit.”

The downside to a diet devoid of human consciousness is that they all tire easily. Consuming organic matter helps, but it has hardly any effect compared to coral exposure, which restores their physical and mental strength. 

“You should head out tonight,” Connor says. He’s tapping something on his phone. It sours Sixty’s mood to hear the advice, though he knows Connor’s right. “Take the car.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll do more than think about it, you’ve got work tomorrow.” Connor raises the phone to his ear, and Sixty can hear the voice on the other end before the first ring is over. “Hey, Hank. It’s me.”

Sixty sets down the roller, no longer interested in painting. Most of the wall is blue now, anyway. He can finish it tomorrow. Maybe grab some more paints while he’s out, too, whether or not everyone else has decided on colors yet. There’s plenty of coral out that way.

“I’m fine, I promise,” Connor says. “I got home safe, no sign of typhon anywhere. The park was safe and the commute’s safe. We don’t get typhon or coral out here, okay? Stop worrying so much.”

Sixty snorts and Connor shoots him a glare. _Liar,_ Sixty mouths, stretching his arms behind his neck. 

“You haven’t even told me where you live,” Hank says. Sixty can hear him clearly across the line, his hearing far more sensitive than a human’s.

“I don’t recall you asking. I appreciate the concern, Hank, but I’m good. You know I’ve always got my pistol.”

“That won’t do shit against the bigger ones.”

Connor rolls his eyes. “You take care of yourself and I’ll watch my own back. Deal?”

“How about your brothers?”

“They’re fine,” Connor says, his voice a touch softer. “Both at home. I’ll ask Sixty to give you a call tomorrow and you can catch up. Right now he’s got paint on his hands.”

“Sup, Hank!” Sixty calls out, grinning. 

“Great, okay,” Hank says. “You can never be too cautious. Sleep with one eye open, and all that. I’ll keep in touch.”

“Goodnight,” Connor says, ending the call. 

“Don’t look so annoyed,” Sixty says. He pats Connor on the back, turning him towards the kitchen. “If you were human, you’d be dead by now.”

“In a way, I was.”

“Morbid! How pleasant.” They pass by Nines, who’s got his nose glued to his screen, and Simon, who’s eating a marshmallow fluff sandwich bite by nibbling bite (still with too many teeth). Sixty grabs a cup of applesauce from the counter and pushes it into Connor’s hands. “Eat. Quit bringing my mood down.”

“I’m hardly in a bad mood.”

“Go bicker with everyone about paint colors. I’m getting some more tonight.”

“With the curfew--”

“From a shuttered store,” Sixty says. “It’s all gold over there. No one’s trying to get that paint back.”

Connor closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Okay,” he says. “It’ll do you some good. Is the blue not sufficient?”

“Green!” North shouts from the living room, at the same time as Josh says, “Purple would be nice.”

“See what I’m dealing with here?” Sixty pats Connor’s cheek, then steps back. “I’ll get a few different colors. You can help peel the wallpaper or something.”

Discussion about which colors--and shades--breaks out as he leaves the kitchen to put away the blue paint before heading out on tonight’s expedition.


	3. Chapter 3

Gavin taps a pen against his desk, eyes drifting over the words on his screen, barely seeing them. He thinks he should feel some satisfaction at the closure of this case, but all it does is make his stomach feel sour, churning not over the death but over the circumstances fucking everything up.

Three months of working on and off to find this dealer and then he shows upon the banks of the river, chest burst open like some sort of horror movie. Case closed. Time to deliver the bad news, write up a report, and tuck it away for good.

The TV drones on in the break room. Ten deaths. Twenty-one missing. There’s a tally on the screen half the time, if he cares to look, but he stopped paying attention to the numbers after a couple of months. Typhon are killing people, what’s new? All it does is give him a headache, and he can’t even deal with that because the precinct is out of pain medication.

Hank’s been glancing at him for the past ten minutes, enjoying his own coffee in the break room, and Gavin braces himself for the company as soon as the older man rises from his seat, leaving Tina alone with her lunch.

“Who pissed you off?” Hank asks.

Gavin grimaces. It doesn’t make for a significant change in expression. “The better question would be who hasn’t pissed me off today.”

“Don’t be a dick.” Hank shakes his head and leans against the desk. “How’s the case going? Got any good leads?”

It’s a testament to Hank’s experience that he knows exactly the right questions to ask, and Gavin’s clever enough to have Hank already figured out. The lieutenant wouldn’t ask outright if Gavin needs help; Gavin’s already bit back for that one too many times. Asking how the case is going is his way of trying to gauge progress and see if Gavin needs any assistance. No matter the friction between them, Hank’s still his direct superior.

“Yeah, I found him, alright.” Gavin tosses the pen onto the desk, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Typhon found him first. I don’t know if he ran into them on accident or got fed to them. Either way, he’s gone.”

Hank whistles. “What about his work?”

“There’s no structure to his operation. Half his guys are dead. It’ll fizzle out before the year’s over, just like every other business in this fucking economy. I’m not gonna waste the time after today when we’ve got other shit to do.”

“That’s a fair assessment. We could use your help on homicide. I’ll have some cases on your desk in the morning.”

“And the rest of my cases? I’ve got a few I need to follow up on.”

“Lower priority,” Hank says. “Violent crimes are ramping up. If no one’s hurt, shelve it.”

“Got it.” Gavin turns back to his screen, rearranging his files and lists. They’re understaffed and every single one of them is feeling it. Tina’s taking cases she wouldn’t have two years ago, and it’s only the freeze on pay raises that’s keeping her from an official promotion to detective. Chris, who’s only been out of the academy a handful of months, always has a few cases on his plate. They hardly patrol anymore, what with the military in town, and when they do, they need to patrol with a partner and proper gear in case of an alien ambush.

The move towards militarization started fast and slowed down. There’s only so many supplies left after the military takes its share, so the police get whatever trickles in afterwards. Pistols and rifles aren’t hard to come by--Americans love their guns--but specialty tech is sparse. The department perimeter is dotted with anti-typhon turrets, always scanning for alien material; Gavin’s only ever heard them shoot once, at a mimic that got too close. What they don’t have are Q-Beams and nullwave transmitters, and Gavin prays they never have to use them; they’re heavy-hitting weapons best used against the larger, more dangerous typhon.

Disruptors, on the other hand, use far less questionable technology. Better than a taser, with enough force to stun a typhon, but not as quick to shoot. “You heard anything about those stun guns?”

“Supposedly, we’re scheduled for a shipment next month.”

“That’s what they said last month.”

“The RSV-77?” Tina asks, wandering over from the break room. She and Chris are scheduled for patrol this afternoon; Gavin knows she’s killing time until Chris’ meeting with the captain is over. “Captain Allen’s team got a set. I heard from Brittany that they could knock a deer out cold. Wap, and it just tips over.”

Gavin snickers. “Did they go out and find a deer just for that? Jeeze, I didn’t know any of those were still around.”

“Whatever the hell the typhon are doing, they’re leaving the wildlife alone,” TIna says. “So, yeah. They went alien hunting and got a deer instead. There’s probably a joke in there somewhere.”

“The joke is that we’re in a timeline where ‘alien hunting’ is in the realm of possibility,” Hank says. “We don’t even get to be in space for it.”

“Means we get a few more years before we become dinner. Cheers,” Gavin says.

Tina claps him on the back. “And a few more yet once we get our disruptors. Sounds like a pretty good deal.”

“Mhm. Now let me write my report before I get Fowler breathing down my neck. I know you’ve both got shit to do.”

“Trust me, the minute we get those weapons, the whole department will know,” Hank says. He tips his coffee mug towards Gavin, then Tina, before finding his way to his own desk across the bullpen.

Tina glances at Gavin’s screen. “Shame he ended up dead.”

Gavin waves his hand. “He got what was coming to him. I’m just pissed we didn’t get anything out of him before he bit it.”

“Shame he died like that, anyway. Don’t let it keep you up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

It’s a grisly way to die. He’s witnessed it, both on footage and in person, people getting torn apart by typhon so they can feed on human brains or whatever. That sort of screaming can’t be scrubbed from one’s mind. He’s not sure these monsters even have the capacity for anything other than killing and building their freakish golden webs.

Gavin doesn’t even know if anyone in the city will make it more than a few years. He knows, at least, that they’ve made it three so far: Two since the invasion, and one more before that, when there were typhon slinking around Detroit. Rumors came out about shadows in the night killing vulnerable people.

Cole was one of them. Hank had to lie through his teeth before he was permitted back on duty, because if he kept claiming some eldritch creature killed his son, he was only going to get another psych eval. Gavin never believed Hank’s lie and was convinced he’d finally lost it, but then the invasion happened. He thinks the captain apologized to Hank sometime in the chaos. What’s interesting is that nobody on the news has ever talked about more than rumors of typhon before the invasion. There had to be more of them--if one got down, it multiplied. But he’s never had the time nor interest to think about that.

Seeing the bodies never gets easier. He knows what Hank sees every time he looks at one of them. They’re all living in that same nightmare now. Every single one of them has known someone who’s died, and they’re all worried about every other friend who’s still alive.

Still. Not a single person in the department has eaten a bullet yet. Maybe it’s a sense of responsibility, or the knowledge that once one of them goes, the rest will follow. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe they’re clinging to whatever time they have left with their loved ones, and they’re willing to risk the tradeoff of dying in pain and fear.

Gavin’s only sticking around because the longer he lives, the more of those bastards he gets to kill before he’s gone.

* * *

Gavin slips into the café down the road after sending off the report, taking off early and catching a bit of sunlight on the way over. He’s lucky the place isn’t busy, with rush hour not yet upon them, but it isn’t quiet, either. Most places have shut down, cutting out most of the competition for any given business and making the remaining ones busy as hell. Once he’s got his drink in hand, he claims a recently vacated table by the window, sipping at his too-sweet latte as he watches the pedestrians pass by, enjoying the warm September afternoon.

It isn’t long before someone else grabs a chair at his table--two someone elses, rather--making themselves comfortable and flashing him a grin. “Sup, Gav,” Sixty says, leaning back in his seat. Connor puts on an apologetic smile.

“You’re blocking my view,” Gavin says.

“We’re improving it, you mean.”

“How’ve you been?” Connor asks. His drink looks artsy, one of those hibiscus tea and coconut milk concoctions. “I hear work’s been busy.”

It’s been a while since they’ve spoken. Hank introduced them all over lunch sometime, the twins and their friend, Markus. They’re hardly acquaintances, but in this world, that means they’ll have each other’s backs, if needed. It helps the city feel less lonely, less on the brink of shattering.

Funny how Gavin knows more people now that the world’s gone to shit. Nothing like an apocalypse to bring people together.

“People are scared. Means more crime. Not to mention we’ve got to deal with lockdowns and curfews, and all the other weird shit. I don’t think I’ve had a day off in two years.” Gavin takes a drink of his coffee. “What’re you two doing out here?”

“I work a couple stores down. We just closed for the day,” Connor says. “Sixty’s got the car today.”

“He means I’m the one with the license,” Sixty says, taking a chug from what’s probably a plain coffee.

When he sets it down, Gavin gets a good look at the receipt printed on it and whistles. “Jesus. Fifteen shots? The fuck is wrong with you?”

Sixty shrugs. “I tipped.”

Gavin turns to Connor. “Is he okay? Seriously.”

“He’s pulling an all-nighter to get some work done fixing up the house. He’ll be fine.”

“If you insist.” Gavin gives the cup another look and grimaces.

Sixty claps Connor’s shoulder. “Speaking of, I gotta get some screws before North chews me out. There should be a place around here, assuming it’s still open.” He hops out of his seat and grabs his drink, giving Gavin a mock salute. “See ya.”

“Really, don’t worry about him,” Connor says once he’s gone. “Coffee’s his thing. The whole situation stresses him out, so he puts himself to projects.”

“How’ve you been, then? Haven’t seen your face in a while. I might’ve wondered if you’d bit it, except Hank would’ve been sad about that.”

“We’re near the edge of the safe zone, but we’re managing. Nothing’s come after us yet. Hank worries, but he hasn’t seen how capable we are,” Connor says. He looks out the window at the people passing by, and the side of his face makes him look serious, like his smile is only superficial. “Sometimes I marvel at the normalcy available to us. This doesn’t look like there’s a war inside our city. People going about their lives, shopping, talking with friends.”

“Except the schools have military guards and every other civilian’s got a gun,” Gavin says. “But yeah. Normal.”

“Do you think this will ever end? That we could push back the typhon or come to a truce?”

“A truce would imply those fuckers could think or talk. Fat chance of that.”

Connor hums. “Do you really think that’s impossible?”

The thought makes Gavin pause. It’s not something he’s thought of before, mainly because he’s never had to: the typhon are beasts, through and through. “Tell you what. Show me one of those things talking and I’ll think about it.”

“My other question, then. Could life go back to normal?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Too many people have died. We’re fighting a losing battle, anyway. The question is, how long are we gonna last?”

Connor finishes his drink, thumbs pushing temporary dents into the plastic sides of the cup. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I want to find optimism somewhere, but everyone’s got a bleak outlook.”

“You came to the wrong guy if you’re looking for a sunny forecast.”

“You’ve glimpsed the front lines of the battle and see the heart of the city. I’d rather honesty born of experience than false hope.” He stands, offering his hand. “Sorry for the turn this conversation took. It was nice meeting you again.”

Gavin shakes his hand. “You, too. Keep yourself safe and make sure your brother doesn’t have a heart attack.”

Connor leaves, walking away with his chin up. His shoulders relax outside the door, and Gavin thinks he sees the light catch his eyes before he turns down the road, headed in the direction Sixty went.

Despite the world shrinking around him, he feels like it’s a little more full today.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey, can I see your phone?” 

“Not a chance,” Connor says, leaving his phone right where it is in his pocket.

He and Hank are out at the park--one of the safe ones by the river--taking Sumo for a walk. The dog’s become rather fond of Connor over the years, once he got past his initial caution at his unusual smell, and Connor loves him in turn. He’s such a delightful creature, soft and kind, with an unrivaled sense of playfulness.

“I just want to take a quick look at--”

“You want to adjust my GPS settings.” He gives Hank a weary smile. “Which is very rude, by the way. I’ve already told you, I don’t go anywhere unsafe.”

“How about when you do, and you call for help but no one can find you?” Hank asks. “Or are you resigned to dying in a ditch someday anyway?”

“If I ever go anywhere sketchy, my brothers always know, okay? I’m more worried about you and where your job takes you.” His smile drops. “You look exhausted, by the way. Are you still on overtime?”

“Eight hours a day, sometimes more. Weekends, too, as you know. I told Jeff I’d be taking the afternoon off and he looked like he was about to tell me to take the week off.” Hank shrugs. He sounds as tired as he looks, and most days, Connor doesn’t see him without a coffee in hand. “He knows work’s the only thing keeping me from drinking myself to death.”

Both the fortitude and the weakness that Hank shows are remarkable. Humans can be so fragile, yet still they keep on going, and Connor has seen firsthand how Hank has pushed through his grief and the current crisis. “You give yourself too little credit. You’re strong, and you’re still passionate about your work. How’s your equipment?”

“The only specialty stuff we’ve got is turrets. Not even disruptors yet.” They stop beside the railing near the river. “I keep a shotgun in my car when I’m going to a red or yellow zone.”

“Good. You should do.”

The red zones are in total lockdown. People are ordered to leave them, but some stay and insist their guns are enough or the mimics won’t come for them, subsequently dying painful deaths. Yellow zones are militarized, with evacuation encouraged but not required; they’re close to the edge of safety. Connor lives in a yellow zone, but the military’s resources are stretched thin and they don’t patrol his neighborhood outside of cursory drives through.

Hank clears his throat. “So the president’s saying they’ve got weapons in development that will take down these things for good.”

Even though he knows the promise is empty, it still makes Connor uncomfortable. If it came down to it, he doesn’t think he would willingly let himself perish even for the good of humanity, and the possibility of annihilation of the rest of the typhon scares him. “Who are ‘they’? The military? TranStar? They’re barely operating as it is, aren’t they?”

“Hell if I know. You know how it goes: The president says some shit, CyberLife’s CEO follows up by telling everyone those expectations are unrealistic, and the Yus are practically AWOL, leaving TranStar’s reputation in the trash. For all we know, the government’s planning to nuke the hardest hit cities like cutting off a festering limb. It’s not like they can afford to create and distribute weapons for everyone who needs them.”

“It wouldn’t work,” Connor says. “The typhon are everywhere and can survive radiation. Generate it, even. It would only devastate the planet further.”

“Yeah? Well, shit.”

They talk a little more, walking along the path. There’s sports, almost all reruns now, but very little of which Connor is familiar with, which gives Hank plenty to talk about. Another restaurant that’s closed down, unable to stay open with so little business. President Warren’s bold claims that the crisis is being dealt with despite the death toll climbing ever higher. 

Death and danger are part of everyday life for all of them, and Connor wishes the peace had been sustained longer. He only had one year on Earth before the official invasion, and he sorely misses being able to walk anywhere freely and not having to worry about his human friends. 

“Gavin said you were remodeling,” Hank says as Sumo sniffs at a tree. “How’s that going? Got any pictures?”

This time it doesn’t feel like Hank’s digging for anything. “The place is hideous,” Connor says honestly. “We got it cheap, and it shows. Mold, peeling wallpaper, broken pipes… We’ve dealt with the worst of it”--a lie, since the place is already more than suitable--”but it’s still a work in progress. Sixty finally got fed up and started painting over the wallpaper.”

“Aren’t you supposed to peel it first?”

“No one wants to start that argument.”

Hank chuckles. “That’s fair.”

Sumo’s inspection of the tree is interrupted as he lifts his head suddenly, looking across the park.

Hank stiffens. “What is it, boy?” he asks, holding the leash tightly. Connor turns to look, but he can’t see anything unusual. There’s only benches and sparse trees and bushes over that way. “Did you see something?”

“Could’ve been a squirrel,” Connor suggests, but when Sumo begins to growl, he pauses.

Moments later, there’s a glimpse of something black and wraith-like darting between the greenery.

“We’re going,” Hank says, voice hard. He pulls on Sumo’s leash, eventually getting the dog to budge, and turns to walk in the opposite direction. One hand goes to his pocket, pulling out his phone, and he dials a number. “Connor, watch my back.”

“Got it.” Connor draws the pistol from inside his jacket, holding it at the ready as he walks backwards, occasionally glancing behind him to make sure he doesn’t trip. The mimic doesn’t follow, but it does observe the two of them, likely deferring to Connor; it probably assumes Hank is his prey. The thought turns his insides, but the hierarchy benefits him.

It upsets him to see Hank so on edge, but he’s got every right to be. Even a mimic can be devastating to encounter, and he’s got his dog to worry about. Connor knows it goes deeper than that, though: Cole was killed at a park like this. It’s not just worry, but memories going through Hank’s mind, and Connor hopes the older man can hold himself together.

Hank reports the sighting over the phone, between muttering something about how ridiculous this is, right in the middle of the city. When they reach the parking lot, there are only a few cars there, Hank’s among them. “Hop in. I’ll give you a ride home.” Sumo hops into the back seat as soon as the door is open, settling down comfortably and looking up at Connor.

Connor replaces the pistol inside his jacket, then scritches Sumo’s head and behind his ears, watching the dog close his eyes in bliss. “Don’t worry about it. I can take a cab.”

“Don’t give me that shit, Connor. It’s not safe to wait around and cabs aren’t cheap, automated or not.”

“Hank…”

“I know you live in a yellow zone,” Hank says. “So get in the fucking car and I’ll drive you home.”

“What?” Connor’s eyes widen. “How did you know that?”

“Why else would you be so antsy about telling me where you live? Look, I’m not going to get on your case about it. I know all your options are shit. But you could stand to be a little less stubborn and let someone else help you out for once.”

“Oh.” It’s a bit of a relief that Hank’s not pissed off about where he lives--or at least not showing it--though he would rather not have Hank put himself in danger by driving out there. He considers asking Hank if he’s certain, but that will get him more snark. “It’s a little far. You can drop me halfway.”

“Nope,” Hank says quickly. “I don’t have anything else to do that isn’t laundry, and I don’t really want to do that. We can go through some coffee drive-through on the way if it makes you feel any better, but I’m not buying anything for your brother after what I heard about him.”

“Neither am I interested in fueling his habit. If he wants that much caffeine, he can brew it at home.” Connor pats Sumo once more before closing the back door and climbing into the passenger seat. He discreetly gives himself a once-over and finds all his limbs holding up with standard anatomy. “Do you need GPS navigation?”

“If you can tell me how to get there, we’ll be fine.”

They make their way to Connor’s place, uneventful except for the coffee order, and as promised, Hank doesn’t make any fuss when dropping Connor off at his front door. It makes him feel vulnerable, Hank knowing where he lives, yet it’s a relief to know he doesn’t have to hide this anymore. He still has so many secrets, and any one of them slipping out could endanger his family, but it feels right to have a friend in Hank. 

He worries that as the crisis gets worse, they might be pushed apart, but he’ll take as much as he can get right now, while they’re both still alive.


	5. Chapter 5

Gavin would be lying if he said he wasn’t glad to have a case with a stabbing. There’s an obvious murder weapon, clear intent, and not an alien in sight. It’s one of the neighborhoods with the lightest restrictions, so people are comfortable walking around and no one would think twice about someone entering their neighbor’s house if they looked like they belonged there.

CSI spent all morning documenting the scene and they only just finished by the time he got there. Just the two of them, and the responding officer hadn’t stuck around. Gavin thought he’d be given a case that was already in progress, something they hadn’t had the chance to follow up on, but turns out Hank’s pushing them to focus on the newest crimes--highest likelihood of the perp still being alive--and the ones most likely to be repeated. For homicide, that means murders with extreme violence, dead children, or which look related to another case. For the rest of the department, it’s assault and rape.

A few of the cases he’s been assigned over the past week have been open and shut. One guy thought he saw a typhon in the night and grabbed his gun, but it was his neighbor going out for a smoke. While there are typhon that are people-shaped--phantoms, they’re called, but they’re all black cords and shifty forms like mimics--they haven’t been sighted this far into the city. It’s a damn shame the guy made such a rash decision.

He takes a detour on his way back, heading further out to pick up a burger from this fantastic place that’s only barely hanging on. With the price of beef skyrocketing, they’ve had to adapt, swapping to chicken burgers and falafel patties, and the falafel is honestly good enough that Gavin wouldn’t go for beef if they had it.

Coral creeps in the distance, threatening to swallow the city. He hopes the owners pack up and move before something comes along and decides to make a meal out of them.

He drives back towards the precinct, taking a bite of his sandwich. It’s almost surreal, driving past a place that should be lively but is half-abandoned. He misses seeing people everywhere. There’s only one person on the sidewalk, and he catches their eye--

He slams the brakes.

It’s Connor.

Gavin rolls down the window and turns his head, but the name he’d been about to call dies on his lips. No one’s there. The sidewalk is empty of pedestrians, with no trace of Connor anywhere. He can hear the faint rumble of thunder mingling with that of nearby military vehicles.

“Connor?” he calls out anyway. “Sixty?” It could be either one of them.

Nothing.

“Fuck.” He groans, rubbing his eyes. He could’ve sworn someone was right there, but apparently they’re not, and he hopes it’s just his overactive imagination and nothing more. Given how much he’s been working and his caffeine intake, it shouldn’t be a surprise.

Still, it makes him uncomfortable to think about someone he knows walking towards the edge of society as they know it. Even if he only imagined it, the thought that Connor could be in danger doesn’t leave his mind as he drives.

Once he’s finished his meal and back in the green, he calls Connor.

“Is something the matter?” Connor asks right away, and his raspy voice on the other end soothes Gavin’s nerves. It’s the first time Gavin’s called him. They exchanged numbers the first time they met--a good habit these days when everyone’s trying to stay connected.

“I just wanted to check in on you,” Gavin says. “I thought I saw you walking over by Creekwood, towards a red zone, but it might’ve been someone else. I’m halfway back to the precinct now, so I’m good.”

“It must’ve been,” Connor assures him. “I’m out for a walk by the river. Perfectly safe. I don’t have a shift today, so I thought I might as well enjoy the scenery. What took you out so far?”

“Good food. You know how far Hank will go for a burger, right? And how much he’ll pay for the beef?” Gavin whistles. “Gotta support local businesses and all.”

“At least you’re safe,” Connor says. “Be careful, okay? Food isn’t worth your life.”

“I’m in the clear, aren’t I? I know what I’m doing,” Gavin says. “Hey, you wanna hang out sometime? There’s this café right next to the DPD, gotta be the safest spot in the precinct. We could meet there tomorrow at four.”

“You don’t have overtime?”

“Hell yeah I work overtime! I’ve been busting my ass since before this shit started. I do my forty, answer calls, and anything else is at my discretion, because fuck knows we’d get more suicides and resignations if we were forced to do overtime until those things wipe us out. So, you in?”

“Yeah, I’m in. How about the place we met last time, instead?” Connor suggests.

“This place has really good coffee, I’m telling you.”

“Gavin…”

He sighs. “Fine. I’ll see you there.”

“Thanks for the invite. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re still around,” Connor says, then ends the call.

Gavin’s not quite at the point where finding out a friend’s alive and safe is a highlight to his day, but he’s sure he’ll get there soon, and he certainly feels relieved that Connor is doing well. Whoever the poor soul was walking the other way, he’d want to wish them well, but for all he knows they’re walking towards death on purpose.

Not his problem.

When he reaches the precinct, there’s a commotion in the bullpen. Gavin tries to push through the crowd gathered by the holding cells, but Fowler is already there, waving at everyone to disperse. “Back to work, all of you,” he says, sounding as bone-weary as he looks. More than one officer has a hand at their belt.

“What’s going on?” Gavin asks, trailing Hank back to his desk. “Who’s in the cage that’s got everyone so interested?”

“Mimic,” Hank says, sitting down heavily. “One of the bastards snuck in. Nearly got one of the janitors, but he managed to corral it in a holding cell. Empty, thank god. No one deserves to go out like that. We released the guy in the other holding cell, because, well.”

Gavin winces at the thought of being stuck next to one of those things. “Is it still alive?”

“Got someone from SWAT watching the cell, and someone’s dragging in one of the turrets. The problem with killing it is it’ll try to kill us if we open the door.” Hank raises his hands like there’s nothing they can do about it. “With any luck, Jeff’ll get someone from CyberLife to take it off our hands.”

“Right.” Gavin settles into his seat, but leaves his sidearm on top of his desk. He’s getting out of here the second his report is done.

* * *

Connor puts his phone away in his pocket with a scowl. He thought he’d gone unnoticed, but no, Gavin spotted him. Figures.

The suburbs around him are a ghost town. It’s filled with indicators of livelihood, from houses filled with the belongings of entire families to businesses abandoned without retrieving the stock. Despite the evacuations, bodies rot in and outside the houses, some bloated and others skeletons. It makes looting and travel gruesome business.

He holds his human shape even when he’s far enough that coral covers the place like garlands. Walking through and around the strands offers him the memories of both others of his kind and the beings they’ve killed, only brief flickers and whispers since he’s not actively listening to them. The coral revitalizes him, replenishing his energy like a much-needed glass of water. It’s the perfect environment for him and his kind, and he regrets that coexistence seems like some far-fetched fantasy. WIll the humans die out, leaving him and his kind to wander the earth like this for centuries?

He doesn’t want to see that happen. As relaxing and comfortable as this place is for him, the place feels haunted, both from the absence of humans and the memories of the dead thrumming through the coral.

There’s a neighborhood around here that he wants to start digging around him, see what cash and clothes he can turn up. It’s morbid, but if he tries the houses that are visibly broken into first, he’ll likely be taking from dead families rather than living ones. It seems like an important distinction.

He’s almost to the neighborhood when he hears a commotion. There’s a shout, and crying, like a human is in the area, and he darts behind the houses in the direction of the sounds. Someone’s clearly in distress, and still alive by some miracle. When he gets close, he crouches low and peers around the edge of the house.

There’s a human woman standing in the street, and not far past her is a car that looks well maintained for this area. A phantom stands not far away, standing and watching with predatory intent. Between the two is Nines.

Nines is only recognizable because he is half-shifted, his arms and face somewhere between human and typhon, while the rest of him looks no different from the phantom before him. His face ends at the nose and his eyes are white and glowing softly, with a second pair at his temples and a third half-hidden in his nebulous hair. He stands defensively in front of the woman, who looks like she’s about to shoot him, but uncertain and likely unwilling to waste bullets if she doesn’t have to.

Maybe she’s aware he’s all that stands between her and certain death.

Connor steps out and strides towards them. The woman spots him and shakes her head quickly. “No, don’t, you need to--” she warns, ending in a gasp as Connor shifts abruptly, shedding his human appearance entirely.

He doesn’t hesitate. He tackles the hostile phantom, phasing forward quick as a flash and slamming into it. It shrieks at him and lashes out, its long, spindly fingers ending in wickedly sharp claws. He narrowly avoids the attack, responding in kind, and his claws tear through the flesh. It doesn’t bleed; there is simply a ragged wound left behind, and he knows the pain it feels is far duller than any that an organic being would experience.

Connor doesn’t let up. He presses forward and forces the phantom on the defensive. He slashes and swipes, even pulling on his energy reserves to let loose a blast of kinetic energy, which staggers the thing. Killing is something he wants to avoid. As long as he can keep it distracted, Nines can escort the human to safety. He’ll have to if he’s to keep the mimics away, lurking between the houses as they are. Connor hopes he can get her out quickly, because his strength is draining fast after so long away from the coral. He hasn’t had enough time to rejuvenate.

Three gunshots ring out.

Connor glances to the side, watching Nines’ eyes open wide in shock as he grabs at his chest. The woman, gun in hand, runs towards her car.

She doesn’t make it. The phantom darts out, stepping to her side in seconds, and slices its claws through her throat like butter. It holds her twitching body as she dies and feeds on the last of her consciousness.

Connor yells something unintelligible, anger and grief flaring within him alongside an otherworldly hunger. He begins to charge forward, but then a hand grips his shoulder, and he turns to see Nines.

“It’s over,” Nines says, no longer holding onto the vestiges of human mimicry. His voice is low, gravelly, and warped, this form not suited to speech. “She’s gone. There’s nothing we can do for her.” It remains unspoken that the phantom will leave them be if no longer threatened. It is also understood between them that the body should be returned near civilization before a weaver finds and transforms it into a new phantom.

But Connor is bitter. This one will never listen, continuing to hunt humans who leave the boundaries of the city, and it will only grow stronger as it does. He pulls from his energy again, as much as he can, and attacks the phantom with another kinetic blast. It reels from the force of the attack and Connor is on it again in an instant, all claws and fury, no longer holding back his strength.

“Connor!” Nines shouts, dragging him away from it. He struggles and squirms away, elbowing Nines off of him, and turns back to his quarry.

It’s dead. No more than a pile of goop, its body losing some of its shape to look more like a limp, tangled hose, solid and no longer shifting in and out of this realm. The damage from Connor’s attacks is visible in the slashes covering its corpse.

“You killed it.” Nines’ voice is clear again and his form is mostly human. He’s forgotten the ears and his neck is too long. The bullet wounds are hidden under his clothing. “The danger was over, Connor.”

“You know as well as I do how strongly our kin resist change,” Connor bites back. He resumes his human appearance, but the result is wobbly, and he is unsteady on his feet. “It would have killed again.”

“You didn’t.”

Connor exhales sharply. “I almost did,” he admits. “If I hadn’t been as curious as I am, I would have killed Hank without a second thought.”

In their first few weeks on Earth, the three of them had done little but skulk in the shadows and learn how to mimic animals and humans. They learned to feed from simpler prey. With less sentience came less sustenance, and Connor couldn’t manage the starvation. It was simple enough to find a man drunk in an alleyway and feed from his consciousness, killing him violently in the process. At the time he hadn’t known guilt or empathy. He hadn’t known kindness, either, but when a paramedic draped a blanket over his shoulders and Hank spoke gently to him while he was covered in blood and feigning fear, he felt something he couldn’t define. Something he wanted to explore.

He doesn’t like to think of himself as a killer. He hasn’t harmed another human since, and he never intends to. But he knows his family is the exception to the rule.

“You don’t want to give others the chance you were given,” Nines says.

“I like Markus’ view, but it’s idealistic. Not every typhon will listen.” Connor kneels down and pulls the woman’s wallet from her purse. He opens it, pocketing the cash and checking the ID.

Danielle Carnegie.

The name sounds familiar, so he digs through her purse again. There’s a lot of junk he doesn’t need and an employee card for CyberLife, and he recalls where he’s seen her before.

“She’s CyberLife’s PR,” Connor says, holding up the card. “Or something like that. They’re going to want to investigate this.”

Nines shrugs. “What are they going to find? It’s not like we have fingerprints.”

“No, but…” His skin prickles. “What if they have cameras on this street? They can track her car’s GPS.”

“Don’t be paranoid. It’s obvious how she died.”

“Not if we direct the car to return to the city.” Still, Nines has a point. He can leave the body on a patrol route without the car. “Alright. I won’t worry.” He stands, some of his energy returning thanks to the ubiquitous coral.

“Connor.” Nines grasps his shoulder again. “You cannot blame a predator for hunting.”

“You can stop it from hunting ever again.”

Nines looks at him for a moment, then lets go. “I suppose you can.”

The car is left on the curb and the body left on a patrol route, far from where the weavers travel. When Connor returns home, it’s with a fair bit of cash in his pocket and a bag filled with clothing and miscellaneous goods. He sets a sketchbook and pack of pens down on the table beside Sixty, who’s slowly eating through the morning’s used grounds of coffee from a paper filter, and leaves a book about identity and change outside Markus’ dark room. Nines is nowhere to be found.

He falls asleep alone in the room he shares with his brothers, imagining what it might be like to be normal. Human. Innocent and of the earth. Hank and Gavin may already see him that way, and he yearns for it to be true, impossible as it is.

He doesn’t want to be a monster.


	6. Chapter 6

“You look like shit.”

“Pot, kettle,” Connor says. He looks like he’s hardly slept, hair half askew, though the bags under his eyes aren’t half as bad as Gavin’s. His tie is loose. He takes the seat across from him at the table outside the café, a bright mango drink in his hand.

Today’s been hellish. After Danielle Carnegie’s body turned up in one of the outer neighborhoods, reporters and CyberLife have been trying hard to swarm the precinct and the news has been filled with the topic of yet another high profile death. Every few days there’s one of those, some actor or celebrity gone before their time, and it becomes the next big thing to talk about. He’s gotten used to tuning it out. If he doesn’t know them personally and he’s not investigating it himself, he doesn’t care anymore.

With any luck, Connor’s body won’t turn up like that for a long while.

“Sure, but I always look like this. It’s part of my appeal, you know?”

Connor looks at him with a pause that’s a little too long. “Yes, but you’d look more appealing after a full night in bed and a caffeine detox.”

“Man, who’s got time for self-care anymore?” Gavin says. He can’t resist the opening Connor’s given him. “If you want to see me in bed, though…”

“In bed, fast asleep before midnight.”

Gavin rolls his eyes. “Yes, mother,” he says, then drinks his coffee. Of course he’d flirt with the first guy who’s looked his way in months, and of course he’d be turned down, but he didn’t plan on doing anything with Connor anyway. Just his mouth working before his mind.

“Did you figure out who it was you saw?”

“What? Oh, that,” Gavin says. “No, and I don’t care to. People keep on getting reported missing and bodies keep on turning up. So it goes, you know?”

“I suppose it must all blend together after a point, especially in your line of work.”

“I’ve quit worrying about death. Sleep with one eye open and all that--I’m not about to roll over and die--but we’re fucked no matter what we do. I did my grieving the first year they came.” The carnage was unbelievable. Entire towns were wiped off the map, and even a few cities went dark overnight, completely unprepared for the invasion. They’d all lost someone, or more than a few someones, and Gavin consoled Tina on more nights than he can count. He only made it through himself by compartmentalizing everything. “The clock’s ticking for everyone I meet. Stopping to think about it won’t help anyone.”

“No time to mourn?”

“Not for me. Not with these monsters around every corner. One of them got in the station yesterday.”

Connor’s eyes widen and his breath hitches. “But you’re okay?”

“Yeah. It’s gone now. CyberLife managed to stun and grab it, taking it away to God knows where. A lab, probably, if they didn’t just shoot it.” Gavin taps his fingers along the side of his nearly empty cup. He doesn’t know how much more they can study mimics at this point; he would assume they’ve already studied as much as they can of the things.

Connor looks away, watching the people along the sidewalk, and Gavin notices the stray lock of hair that always falls in front of his forehead, consistent despite the bad hair day Connor’s having. He wonders what Connor would look like if he didn’t shave, if he would appear even more tired or simply rougher--in a good way. But Connor’s expression grows darker as he watches. “I watched someone get killed yesterday,” Connor murmurs, keeping his gaze out on the afternoon crowd. “I killed the typhon who did it.”

“Shit, are you okay?” It’s one thing for Gavin to watch this happen, another for a civilian like Connor. “Where were you? Was it someone you knew?”

“She was a stranger, and she was so afraid. I couldn’t save her. I tried, but I was too slow. It took her life just like that, and then I killed it. Two lives gone.” Connor shrugs and turns back to face him. “You probably think they’re not worth caring about.”

“You can’t give the benefit of the doubt to aliens that’ll eat anything that moves, but you’re not the first person I’ve met who tries to empathize with them. You’re allowed to feel bad about doing the right thing.” Gavin tips the last of his coffee back, grimacing at the bitter grounds at the bottom. At least Connor didn’t lose a friend last night. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“But was it the right thing?”

The coffee cup clatters with a hollow sound when Gavin sets it down. “Yeah. That thing could’ve killed you, too, dipshit.”

Connor leans back in his seat, cradling the drink in his hands, condensation coating the outside of the plastic. “There are centuries of human thought dedicated to exploring questions like these. Isn’t it strange how questions of morality remain unanswered even now?”

“Hey,” Gavin says. “There’s a reason I don’t focus on this shit. We’re in survival mode now. You get in your head like that, life’s just going to get harder. Don’t do that to yourself, man.” Clearly Connor’s not dealing with this well if he’s going down the lane of existential crisis about the morality of murderous aliens. Therapy’s in high demand and Gavin doubts he can afford it, if there are even any openings, and nobody knows how to cope with this much death. He wonders if this is the first time Connor’s shot his gun or the first killing he’s witnessed.

“Ignoring the question doesn’t make it go away.”

“We’re all dying in a few years, so yeah, it kind of does.”

Connor’s face falls at that, and Gavin can admit that responding to questions of morality with fatalism is a pretty bad approach. He’s not a good sounding board for these sorts of things and he’s definitely no good at playing therapist. “When’s the last time you sat down and let yourself stop thinking about anything important?” Gavin asks.

Connor furrows his eyebrows. “There are more important things than leisure.”

“That kind of attitude is how you burn out.”

“I do not burn out.”

Gavin chuckles and shakes his head. No wonder Connor’s so stressed. “Everyone burns out. Come on. Sometimes you’ve got to sit down and put on some feel-good movie or some show that makes you forget about _Independence Day_ going on out here.”

“I haven’t seen a lot of movies,” Connor admits. “The TV at home is broken.”

“You want to swing by my place and pick out a movie or two?”

“Doesn’t it hurt to see the world as it used to be?”

Gavin pauses. It’s not how he’d put it, but now that Connor’s pointed it out, it does hurt, like a sort of painful nostalgia and longing. “We’ve still got a lot of that right around us. We’re sitting down for coffee, right? Or whatever the hell sugar rush you’ve got there. Life goes on. But, yeah, we can do fantasy instead.”

“Then I would enjoy watching a movie with you. One that you like.”

“You got it.” He’s already running through titles in his head, some of his favorites that aren’t too dark . If Connor doesn’t watch a lot of movies, then there’s a few gems he’s completely missed out on.

It’s been a long time since he’s had anyone at his place that wasn’t Tina. It will be good to change that for once.

* * *

“Takeout or pizza?” Gavin asks, rummaging through his cupboards. Turns out he doesn’t have as much food as he thought, and he’s down to a single frozen pizza.

“I thought you said popcorn,” Connor calls from the couch. There’s a movie selection screen on the TV, linked to Gavin’s tablet, and Connor is browsing through the titles, though he’s offered to let Gavin make the final decision.

“Popcorn’s a given, but I’m too old to eat junk food for dinner.” At least, if he can manage it, he’ll eat something with a decent amount of calories and nutrients. He feels like shit if he misses too many proper meals. He grabs the pizza from the freezer and holds it up. “Pepperoni okay?”

Connor squints over the back of the couch. “That’s meat, right?”

What kind of person doesn’t know what pepperoni is? “Barely. Don’t tell me you’re vegetarian.”

“Not strictly.”

“Good.”

Half an hour later, the two of them are finally together on the couch, a pizza and bowl of popcorn between them along with a six-pack of beer. They flick through the titles together, and while they almost start marathoning Star Wars (Gavin can’t believe Connor hasn’t seen a single one of them), they end up watching a superhero movie instead. Rom coms are too cheesy and hit-or-miss, and half the good stuff out there right now is all gritty and steeped in pain or death. It’s an era of cinema that Gavin enjoys, but he doesn’t think it would serve as a good distraction. Stories about supernatural powers and saving the day, even when everything’s stacked against them? Way better.

It turns out to be a good choice. Connor leans forward, watching raptly as the plot pulls him in. Gavin feels satisfied at successfully taking Connor’s mind off things, so he leans back, eats his pizza and popcorn, and then rests his arm across Connor’s shoulders. The only interruption comes when Connor eats the popcorn kernels, but he doesn’t crunch too loudly, and Gavin lets it slide despite the thought making his own teeth hurt.

Connor speaks up once the credits start rolling. “I’ve never seen a movie without romance in it.”

“Yeah, well, you know how it is. We might not get our happy endings, but it sure is nice to dream about it. You liked it, though?”

“Very much. I’ve never dreamt of romance. It isn’t something I’ve put much thought to.” He sets the bowl back on the table and Gavin can see that it’s empty, not a single kernel left. “Do you think that’s unusual?”

“Nope. It makes you one of the lucky ones.” Gavin’s long since stopped denying how lonely he feels sometimes, but he doesn’t hold it against anyone for not being interested in his sorry ass.

Connor hums. He turns his gaze from the TV to Gavin, scanning his face. “Does it make me unlucky if there turns out to be someone I am interested in?”

Gavin feels heat creeping up his neck. “Probably,” he says. “Relationships get messy.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, then Connor raises his hand to Gavin’s cheek. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been in one before.”

“Do you want to be?” Gavin asks. It’s fast, he’ll admit, but he’s fallen into quicker and more explosive relationships. He wasn’t expecting any more than a fling with Connor, if anything happened at all, but… well, if Connor’s going to look at him like that, he’d give him anything.

“I’ll admit I have some curiosity and a growing fondness for you,” Connor says. His thumb strokes the stubble. “I didn’t think about it until you invited me to sleep with you.”

“I didn’t--”

“You did. Don’t think I missed that,” Connor says, grinning. “But that isn’t what interests me.”

“Then what does interest you?” Gavin asks. Connor’s hand wanders, mapping out his face from his lips to his brow, and it feels intimate, the way that they’re here with Gavin’s arm around his shoulders, the two of them so close despite the space all around them.

“Trust. Commitment. Touch.” He cups Gavin’s cheek again. “The decision to have a partner to return to, again and again, sharing the good and shouldering the bad together.”

“That’s a lot to say to a guy you barely know.”

“Is it? These aren’t things that need to happen through circumstance. They’re choices.”

Gavin swallows. “Choices you want to make with me?”

“Some of them.” Connor leans in, his eyes drifting down to lock on Gavin’s lips. It makes Gavin feel wanted, desired. “Can I kiss you?”

“Only if you won’t regret it. I’m not a romantic sap.”

“Deal.”

Connor kisses him, his lips soft and velvety against Gavin’s chapped ones. It’s tender, gentle, and exploratory, with Gavin leading; he suspects this may be Connor’s first kiss. The inexperience makes it a little awkward, but Gavin would be lying if he said the whole evening weren’t a little awkward. The way they kiss and touch each other, hands roaming to feel and soothe, has Gavin sighing against Connor’s lips.

Once they break apart, Connor looks up at Gavin with a bright look in his eyes and Gavin can’t help pulling him in for a hug. He strokes Connor’s hair and feels Connor relaxing into his embrace. “Curiosity sated?”

“I’ll need to try that at least a few more times to be certain.”

He smiles against Connor’s hair. “So does this mean we’re dating?”

“Yes, I’d like that.” Connor leans back slowly, but takes one of Gavin’s hands in both of his like an anchor. “I’m still interested in what I said earlier.”

Gavin tries to think back to that, but he draws a blank. “What’s that?”

“To see you in bed, fast asleep, at a decent time,” Connor says.

A laugh bubbles out of Gavin. “Of course you do. God, I can’t remember the last time I got a decent night’s sleep.”

“Would it help if I slept beside you?”

The offer isn’t completely unexpected, and Gavin only needs a moment to consider it. “Don’t forget to text your family where you’re at,” he says. The last thing he needs is Sixty tearing down his door because he can’t find Connor. “But not Hank. He’ll lecture you for your shitty decisions.”

“Not if I tell him I’m at my boyfriend’s.” Connor grins so brightly at those words, like he’s excited to be in this situation, and Gavin can’t blame him. He steals another kiss and then grabs his phone to send a few texts while Gavin cleans up, a bounce in his step that’s been absent for years.


	7. Chapter 7

Gavin falls asleep after midnight with Connor at his side.

It’s a comfortable sort of intimacy that Connor has never experienced outside of the memories of others’ lives. He lies beside Gavin, the two of them wearing nothing but underwear under the warm covers. Gavin’s skin feels so warm against Connor’s; while they’re no longer cuddling, given how much Gavin shifts at night, Connor’s arm is draped across his chest, feeling the beat of the other man’s heart.

Connor is tired, but despite the comfort and feeling of safety, he couldn’t risk potentially letting go of his form. It isn’t like he needs as much sleep as a human. Watching Gavin sleep has been a comfort in itself, and knowing that he wants him here and invited him to his bed means more to him than Gavin may realize. He’s spent hours taking in all of the details, from the tattoos and scars--wounds from old fights, surgical scars under his pecs, a recent nick from shaving--to the way his chest rises and falls with every breath, face and body at peace in a world where that is so hard to find.

Weak dawn light slips in past the edges of the curtains. Connor indulges himself, continuing to watch Gavin in the dim glow. It’s marvelous that everything he sees about Gavin shares something about him: His body tells of his past and his present, who he is and what he’s gone through, and the legacy of his entire bloodline before him. It is so much the opposite of himself, wearing an appearance that belonged to a human before he was spawned from that man’s corpse, a creature not even wholly of this dimension.

At least, that’s what he thinks. Comprehending the quirks of his own existence is strange. How does one begin to explain these things with a human vocabulary? The way he steps through space and molds his own appearance is as natural as breathing is to a human. He understands what he does, but not how, nor how exactly to conceptualize another dimension, if it even exists. Human curiosity is a trait he picked up fast, making him ask questions regarding his own nature, and often when he wanders alone or sits up late at night, he ends up considering the morality of his very existence alongside classic questions such as his purpose in life.

He wonders if the answer matters. Existing--alive, content, and with a friend beside him--ought to be sufficient.

His phone makes a quiet, nearly imperceptible sound as it receives a text, his sensitive hearing picking up on the sound of the cheap screen lighting up. He lounges for another moment, committing Gavin’s image to memory, then slips out of bed to grab the phone from his jeans on the ground.

There’s a text from North. Twenty of them, actually, all of them vague, and all of them asking him to call her. Another notification alerts him of areas shut down due to increased typhon presence.

Connor steps out of the bedroom after checking that Gavin is still asleep, then dials North.

“What took you so long?” she snaps grouchily.

“Good morning,” Connor says dryly, but he can’t help the unease he feels at North’s urgency. “What’s going on?”

“Where are you?”

“Safe. Don’t worry about me.”

“Fine. Then I won’t.” She exhales heavily. “We’re okay. Nothing bad happened, but you should come home. There’s something we need to talk about.”

Selfishly, Connor wants to argue. He wants to stay in this cocoon of comfort, this fantasy of humanity he’s playing out with Gavin, to sleep in and eat pancakes and whatever else humans do in the morning. But his family is more important, and he’s nothing if not loyal. “I’ll call a cab. Do you need anything?”

“No. Keep an eye out on your way. There’s been a lot of movement the next neighborhood over, and I don’t know if it’s evacuations or if something’s being set up. Simon saw a tank, but he didn’t get close.”

“Got it. Hey, is Nines still mad at me?”

North snorts. “You two can figure out your own shit, alright? I’m not going to get in the middle of that. He seems normal, at least.”

That doesn’t necessarily mean much, but he just has to hope Nines isn’t too bitter about the other day. Connor has enough on his shoulders having to work through the guilt and retrospection. “See you, North. Call me if anything changes.”

“Yeah, see you.”

Connor sighs, crossing his arms and standing out in the hall. North’s warning is a sobering reminder that they’re in the middle of a war. Any day could be the last for any of them, human or typhon, and chasing normalcy won’t change that. He can’t pretend that this relationship will last without one or both of them dying violently in the next few years.

When he steps into the bedroom, Gavin’s awake, eyes only half open as he blinks at Connor. “Told you to tell someone where you were,” he mumbles, nearly incoherent.

“That wasn’t a check-in,” Connor says. He doesn’t miss the way Gavin checks him out as he crosses the room to collect his clothes. “North called. She wanted to talk about something in person. Nothing bad, supposedly. I don’t know, maybe Sixty kicked down a wall.”

“And ruin his renovations? Nah.” Gavin chuckles. “Who’s North? Your sister?”

Connor pauses in the middle of looping his belt through his jeans. “She might as well be. We’ve been through a lot together.”

“The name seemed like it’d fit. Nines, Sixty, North, you know. Makes you the ugly duckling or whatever.” Gavin pushes himself up into a sitting position. “You’re leaving already? Fuck, were you even gonna wake me up?”

“I meant it when I said I wanted you to get a proper amount of sleep, so probably not. But if you mean you thought I’d ditch you and pretend this didn’t happen? No.” Connor leans down and catches Gavin’s lips in a kiss, which is returned once Gavin’s mind catches up to what’s going on. The kiss leaves his lips tingling with warmth; Gavin’s much warmer than he is. “I want to stay, but this might be important.”

Gavin grunts. His touch lingers as Connor slowly pulls back to pull on his shirt. “Am I gonna have to fight for your attention now?”

“You’d lose that fight. North would pummel you into the ground,” Connor says, a smile crossing his face. “I’ll come back to you, don’t worry. This wasn’t just a fling or anything like that. Besides, I’m not sure I could find anyone else with your particular brand of scruffiness to snuggle up with.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“It means I think you’re handsome.” Connor can’t resist kissing him once more. “And that we should do this again.”

“Deal.” Gavin settles back in bed for a moment, then groans and flings back the covers. “God, I have work today.”

“You have time to sleep in.”

“And spend that time feeling like I’m missing out on your company? Nah.” He stretches his arms, cracking his shoulders and back. Connor doesn’t stop himself from looking, and Gavin flashes a grin at him.

It takes a little too long for Connor to call a cab, but when he finally has to leave while the coffee’s brewing, Gavin pulls him close for another kiss. “Stay safe, alright?” he says quietly, stubble pleasantly rough against Connor’s cheek.

“Same goes for you.”

“Hey, man, I mean it.” Gavin’s expression turns serious. “If you ever need help, or you need another gun or something, give me a call. What happened to you the other day was scary.”

“I’m okay,” Connor promises. He hopes his smile is reassuring. “I’ll text you when I get home. You keep yourself safe.”

He leaves Gavin with one last kiss before heading out the door.

* * *

Alarm bells start going off in Connor’s head before he steps in the house, though he’s not entirely sure why until he’s inside and Simon hurries him over to the living room, where all the seats are taken and he’s the last one to arrive.

They have a guest.

“Hey,” Connor says. He sits on the arm of the recliner Josh is sitting on, and part of him notices that Markus and Josh both look more lively than usual. “My name is Connor.”

“This is Kara,” Markus says, gesturing to the woman before them. She sits stiffly upright in a chair pulled from the kitchen, with a serious expression on her face. “She’s only been here long enough for coffee. We wanted to wait until you got here to talk.”

Kara looks to be a woman in her thirties, dressed head to toe in warm fall clothing with short brown hair. Her temperature is cool enough that she must be one of them, though she keeps her human form so tightly even here. “Markus invited me,” she says. Her voice is soft but steady. “I didn’t expect there to be this many of you.”

“Seven isn’t a whole lot unless you’re fighting over the microwave,” North says. “Our numbers are fewer than we’d like, but small enough that we can all keep an eye out for each other.”

Connor looks at Markus. “Did you find her?”

“He didn’t,” Kara interrupts. “I know about his whole plan to convince more typhon to be like us, and no, he isn’t why I’m like you. We were both scouting out the same neighborhood. He was talking to some mimics as if they were having a conversation, and that’s what got my attention. No human would survive that and no normal typhon would put in the effort to emulate a human.”

Markus leans forward. “There’s more people like us. Can you believe it? We’re not alone out here.”

“Where were you born?” Nines asks, propping his chin on his hand. “Talos I or Earth?”

“Vorona I.”

“Vorona? I didn’t know anyone from there made it to Earth,” Josh says. “How long ago did you arrive?”

The tragedy of the old Russian satellite is a well kept secret that even they only know because the researchers on Talos talked freely in the presence of typhon subjects. It was where first contact was made in 1960. Mimics killed the crew and the satellite was kept for research purposes over the course of a few decades, setting the stage for larger facilities.

Connor had assumed all those typhon had been killed or took off elsewhere--to the moon, if not drifting further across space--but it would appear that assumption was wrong.

“I’ve been here a lot longer than any of you,” Kara says, “and I’ve known what it’s like to be human before any of you even existed. I’m not interested in being studied or questioned. I don’t think I ever expected to find anyone like myself, and until I met someone last year, I didn’t know it was possible.”

“It can be a lonely experience,” Simon says. “You and your friends are always welcome here, Kara.”

Markus clears his throat. “We would appreciate it if you would work with us. I think I speak for all of us when I say we don’t want to see this level of conflict and death in the world, and we want to do whatever we can to make it better. You’re already familiar with my plans, obviously, which could have a ripple effect. What could we do with a number more people like us? What changes could we make in typhon society to make us all more than predators? We have the potential for so much more, and convincing more of them could make a ripple effect. Think about it: A whole network of us, working towards the betterment of our planet.”

“Getting humans to stop shooting at us sure would be nice,” Sixty says. He’s lounging on a sofa, taking up more than his share of space and looking like he’s only halfway paying attention.

“They have good reason to defend themselves,” Nines points out. “They’re a dying species and they don’t know any of us are capable of anything but violence.”

“I can work with you, but my family is my priority,” Kara says. “We live further inside the city, where fewer typhon are able to reach and where there are more anti-typhon measures in place. I have to keep my daughter safe, and that means I can’t commit as much as you do to fighting the tide. The ripples you make will do more than make a positive impact. They’ll reach people who are committed to maintaining the status quo.”

Connor frowns at that. “There aren’t many we can’t handle. We’re stronger than most phantoms and the weavers are normally docile. Do you really think there could be dangerous pushback if Markus figures out how to get others to help us?”

“I have figured it out,” Markus says, but he also looks at Kara. “Is there anyone higher in the hierarchy who might push back?”

“Easily,” she confirms. “I’m sure you’ve heard about sightings of what look like bigger phantoms. Nightmares, they’re called. They’re like bloodhounds, sent by the weavers to quell danger. If you’re perceived as a threat, they could call in the cavalry.”

“So we get ourselves more shotguns,” Sixty says flippantly, earning a rough nudge from North.

“You should target the weavers.”

“Logical, but if we hurt them, it’ll make everyone else hostile,” North points out.

“If you don’t, they’ll send worse after you, and they’ll continue to make coral. You know what its purpose is, right?”

“It sends out a signal, but what for?” Nines asks.

Connor turns to face him. “A signal?”

Nines shrugs. “It’s difficult to notice. The way we communicate through coral isn’t contained to the network, it’s like… loose radio waves. Some of it radiates into nowhere. That’s how we can sense it before we see it. But why would it do that? We haven’t evolved to be that inefficient.”

“There are bigger typhon out there.” Kara’s voice is quiet, but it draws all of their attention. “Bigger than you can imagine. Sometimes they’re forgotten in our consciousness because we haven’t seen them in so long, but they’re still out there. Weave enough coral and it will act like a beacon.”

“Even from so far away?” North asks.

“They may be closer than you think.”

“We will take your advice into consideration,” Markus says. “Thank you. Your experience is invaluable. Are you sure your family is okay inside the city? We have plenty of space here, and you would be further from the bulk of the technology targeting us.”

Kara smiles thinly. “My daughter is safer there, but I won’t forget your offer.”

Connor opens his mouth to ask another question, then shuts it as the realization hits him, and he can see it on a few other faces as well. Typhon don’t have parents or children, not really, and Kara’s been living as a human a long time. She’s had plenty of opportunity to adopt a human child, and with the current state of things, too many children have been left without parents. If she has a human daughter, the kid would be in constant danger this far out.

“I should be getting to work.” Kara stands up, offering an awkward smile. “Markus has my number. It’s been nice meeting you. I might send Luther over to meet you sometime, too. If you come up with any plans, let me know if you need my help. I might be able to lend a hand.”

Handshakes and goodbyes are exchanged, and once Kara is gone, Connor finds himself in the kitchen, fiddling with an old and blunt knife as he thinks.

Maybe what Markus wants isn’t so impossible. The lot of them all became this way after such a short period of time on Earth, learning from humans and each other, and it makes Connor wonder what everyone else is missing. Why are they so different from the rest of their kind? Is it because they were experimented on? It’s not like the scientists were able to change them much, but it did give them a fair bit of exposure to humans. But then, why couldn’t they empathize until some time after leaving the station?

Markus picks the knife out of his fiddling hands and replaces it in its spot in the block. “There’s someone else I want you to meet,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Did Simon get a new plant?” The man’s been working hard to cultivate a small collection upstairs in the windowsills.

“No. Better.” Markus nods toward the mugs beside the kitchen sink.

There’s two of them, white ceramic with a City of Detroit logo on the side and stains turning the insides beige. They’re well used by all of them who drink coffee or tea. There isn’t anything else of note on the counter. “What is it?”

“Come on, don’t be shy,” Markus says, and Connor’s eyes snap back to the mugs.

They’re exactly identical, down to the slight chip on the handle and the faded logo details.

Connor can’t tell which one is the mimic until it starts to waver, then pops up into a mimic, skittering a few inches across the counter. It’s about the size of a large cat and doesn’t look different from any other mimics he’s seen.

“This is Charlie.”

“You named it?” Connor asks, still watching the mimic. It approaches slowly, then taps his hand twice with one of its arms, feeling him out. Or perhaps it’s the equivalent of a handshake?

“I offered a name and they accepted.” Markus’ face breaks into a huge grin. “They listened to me, Connor. Charlie and Julia both listened and understood. I could feel it across the coral. Do you understand how monumental this is?”

Connor whistles. “You really managed it?” He offers his hand, palm-up, to Charlie, who again pats it twice. “Hey, Charlie. Welcome to the family.”

“I’m as surprised as you are. I pushed some memories across the coral, talked a bit, and all it took was an open mind and a bit of curiosity. Julia’s upstairs, by the way. They’ve taken a liking to North, I think.”

“Are you staying here?” Connor asks Charlie. He receives a chitter in response that sounds vaguely like a negative. It’s hard to tell; their kind isn’t particularly conversational, especially without coral around. “Well, I’m sure Markus has said you’re welcome here whenever.”

“Where were you last night, by the way?” Markus asks, leaning against the fridge. “North said she had a hard time contacting you earlier.”

Connor glances around surreptitiously, noting that everyone else has scattered except Simon, who is perusing--and tasting--a few cans of colorful paint on the floor. “I was with Gavin. He invited me for popcorn and a movie. It was nice.”

“He’s one of your police friends, isn’t he?”

“He’s armed, but not with anything strong. It’s a little concerning,” Connor admits. “I like him. He’s a rough man, but I think he’s good. Honest. Kind of lonely.”

Markus nods. “Do you think we benefit from friendship as much as humans do?”

Connor thinks about the sight of Gavin sleeping soundly, and of the way it made him feel. He thinks about Gavin’s flirting at the café and chatting before the movie, and if he had a real heart, he thinks it might ache in a good way right now. “I do.”

“Then you should work hard to keep your friends close and safe. I worry, you know. Every time I meet Carl or Rose, or when any of you go out to see your friends, I worry about the forces trying to get us all killed. Because it’s not just about changing society, it’s about survival. Any day, someone we care about might die.” Markus sighs and pushes away from the fridge. “But these are the risks we have to take. Otherwise, we’d be holed up in one of those ghost towns that’s smothered in coral, wouldn’t we? That’s not the life for us.”

“Not for Kara, either.” Connor decides on making his own coffee, and once he’s pulled out a filter, Charlie has helpfully brought around a mug for him. The delivery is a bit rough--it clatters and Connor’s worried it might crack--but it’s the thought that counts. “Thank you, Charlie,” he says. “Did you want some?”

Charlie scuttles away deeper into the house.

“That must be a no.”

Markus chuckles beside him. “I feel more hopeful than I ever have. How about you, Connor?”

The memory of Gavin’s kiss is warm on his lips. “We might have a future after all.”


	8. Chapter 8

After Connor leaves, Gavin spends the morning with a dorky grin on his face and some pep in his step. He even manages to fry up some pancakes, though without a recipe, they end up far too eggy, and he decides to grab some vanilla or blueberries (or whatever the store even has these days) so he can properly cook for Connor the next time he comes around.

Next time. God, he’s a sap.

By the time he bothers to look at his phone again, he’s late. He sends a quick text to Fowler so the captain knows he’s not dead, then pours coffee into a dented travel mug and hurries out the door. He’s long since stopped caring about his hours, caring more about solving crimes and getting killers and rapists off their streets, but he wonders, not for the first time, if it’s actually doing any good.

The typhon in the holding cell the other day scared him. Humans are shit, sure. There’s a never-ending pool of vileness at humanity’s core. Sometimes it feels like a waste of time to focus on humans when there are aliens at their doorstep. Does it matter if one human kills another when they’re hardly ever serial killers? The justice system is frozen in place from understaffing and fear. Typhon kill far more than any human. And jails are looking more and more like typhon breeding grounds. If one gets in, it could multiply and start killing all the rest, and instead of having a place where criminals serve their time, they’ve got a building filled with creatures that will kill indiscriminately.

Gavin doesn’t envy the military, tasked with holding back the tide as they are, and he doubts he’d volunteer to join them if given the chance. The action he sees now is dangerous enough with the few typhon he does encounter. He doesn’t know if there’s a right or wrong place to be right now, but he knows he wants to help protect people as best he can. He just hopes he’s doing that in some meaningful way.

The radio only has a few stations anymore, aside from the ones accessible through the internet, so he flicks to the news. More deaths, something about a church service, a reminder to stay tuned for some feel-good dog rescue story. Halfway through his commute they finally announce some real news: the military has taken back some ground in western Detroit, pushing back the typhon with only a few casualties. They’re fortifying the area now and working on reopening some of the roads to get supplies in, with additional plans across the city to be announced later today.

All in all, it’s a good way to start his day.

That is, until he realizes the bullpen is surrounded by caution tape, with people in CyberLife protective suits poking over the place like they’re CSI.

Officers are milling about with tablets in their hands, and some of them have made space in the meeting rooms to the sides. Chris is in the break room on his own tablet, perusing his email before he heads out for his patrol.

“Sup, Chris. What’s going on?” Gavin asks, grabbing a chair. Now that he’s closer, he can see what’s being cleaned up between the desks: dead typhon. Thick cords of rubbery black gunk decorate the area, along with more liquid goop, and he’s not sure if it unsettles him more or less that it looks static, so unlike the shifting of living typhon.

“Phantom. It didn’t get anyone, thank god, and the place was already taped off when I got here. I heard the cleaning crew managed to shut the place before calling for help. The electronic door locks, you know,” Chris says. His voice is shaky, and Gavin can’t blame him for that. He points up to one of the burnt out ceiling lights. “It wrecked some of our electronics. I didn’t know they could do that, honestly. Just… this aura like a ghost or something, apparently it makes everything go haywire.”

A phantom. That’s something they’ve never seen in this area of the city. “How’d it get in? We’ve got turrets set up. I know these fuckers are fast”—faster than anything Gavin’s seen—”but we just got new ones yesterday, right?”

Chris shrugs. “They’re no more than scrap now. The captain’s acting like everything’s fine, but I think he’s freaking out.”

“Hell, I’m ready to freak out. Who killed it?”

“SWAT. They got a whole team in here, didn’t even give it a chance.” Chris gestures around the room, where Gavin notices bullets on the ground or holes in the walls. One of the meeting rooms has a shattered glass window.

“They performed admirably,” says a new voice, accompanied by the hard click of shoes on the floor. The speaker is a woman he’s never met before, looking sharp in a deep blue suit, and she refrains from holding out her hand as she introduces herself. “Dr. Amanda Stern, with CyberLife. Do you know where I can find Lieutenant Anderson?”

“Is he here yet?” Gavin asks, but Chris is already shaking his head.

“I heard the captain calling him earlier about the situation. He should be here any minute now,” Chris says.

“I guess you’ll have to wait. Detective Gavin Reed, by the way, and this is Officer Chris Miller. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Gavin says. She’s corporate, no doubt about it, but she’s got a stun gun and a pistol inside her jacket, not particularly well hidden. With any luck, she’s proficient enough with both to defend herself.

“Of course,” Amanda says. “I hope you don’t mind me asking a few questions. What’s your experience with the typhon in the area? We’re looking into recent reports of attacks and using it to analyze their behavior and any mutations the typhon may have undergone. It’s part of why we’re cleaning up here.” She waves towards the bullpen. “Your lieutenant should have a comprehensive understanding of the situation from information compiled from his direct reports, as I’ve been informed, but what about the two of you?”

Gavin’s brain hasn’t even booted up, and he thinks he’d rather be working than chatting with someone corporate, but at least a corporation has the money to try dealing with this crisis. “There’s not much to say. There’s mimics in the yellow zones, coral and phantoms in the distance, sometimes. The occasional mimic that gets in further. Same as it’s always been, you know?”

Chris nods along with him and sips at his coffee. “That’s about it. Sometimes we get calls about people who think something’s a mimic when it’s not, if that matters.”

“Have you witnessed any typhon that behaved or appeared different than usual?” Amanda asks.

The question seems innocent enough, but the implications make Gavin’s skin prickle. The creatures already behave erratically; what sort of thing would be unusual? He’s heard of some phantoms that appear to have an affinity for setting fires, but that’s about it. “Just your standard eldritch horrors,” he says.

“That is fortunate. If you do encounter anything, please report it to your superiors. Excuse me.” Amanda departs, catching Hank just as he enters the area, looking like he rolled out of bed ten minutes ago with a hangover.

Gavin waits until she’s chatting away with Hank in the captain’s office before he talks to Chris again. “What’s CyberLife want with phantom guts?”

“Who knows? She said she’s a doctor, maybe she’s personally interested in examining them.”

“Phantoms aren’t new. I don’t think they can get anything more out of a dead one than they’ve already got. Not unless they’re evolving or something.” He drums his fingers across the table. “What are the chances CyberLife is just the new TranStar?”

“What, using aliens and experimenting on humans to make a fortune?” Chris chuckles. “I’d call you a conspiracy theorist, but honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised. If the world is ending, why not commit a few human rights violations?”

“Because it’s not over yet, that’s why.” Gavin looks over at the carnage again and takes a deep drink from his mug.

It’s going to be a long day.

* * *

When the news shows a startling amount of coral creeping into the city that afternoon, Gavin takes his break and calls Connor.

He doesn’t get an answer. For an instant, he worries that Connor’s changed his mind and decided to ignore him, but he tells himself the other man is probably busy. Reception is spotty these days, anyway.

It’s fine. Connor will be fine.

* * *

Connor walks through the coral suspended in the air, following Nines as they take the long way around the neighborhood. The evening is quiet; even the birds barely sing. All Connor can hear is his own footsteps, Nines before him, and the skittering and chattering of typhon around them. Being out here is rejuvenating, and he feels himself relax within the hum of energy, feeling at home within the space of his own kind. The shared and stolen memories that filter along the filaments makes him feel like he belongs here, even as the flat lack of emotion from the other typhon reminds him of his otherness. He feels the curious eyes of others following the two of them, their human forms unusual to the others, but it’s too close to human society to drop the charade.

When Nines glances back at him, Connor realizes he’s let his own thoughts slip into the collective consciousness: A grin, a kiss, the morning sunlight filtering into a quiet bedroom.

“He’s a good man,” Connor says.

“He’s only a man,” Nines replies. “Good to some and bad to others, as humans are wont to be.”

“He’s good to me.”

“You don’t need me to tell you it’s dangerous. What will you do when he turns up dead?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never experienced personal grief before,” Connor says. He knows grief in a number of forms, having witnessed it in the memories of others and at Hank’s side, and he’s known the sort of loss that comes from seeing death around every corner and learning that someone he once met is no longer alive. It is inevitable that Gavin will die someday, long before the end of Connor’s natural lifespan (and he doesn’t know if typhon can expire of old age or if they simply live until they are killed). Hank, too. He will not be prepared to see either of them die.

“We’re here,” Nines says, snapping Connor out of his roaming thoughts.

Connor follows with quiet footsteps as Nines sidles along the side of a building, some old strip mall that looks like it was abandoned not long ago. He hears the commotion before he sees it. Both of them peer around the edge carefully.

There’s a heavy military presence along with all sorts of vehicles: Trucks, cars, even an ambulance. The large building across the street, formerly a grocery store, is host to a buzz of activity as people rush in and out. Turrets line the perimeter and perch atop some of the vehicles. It’s only thanks to the distance and their relative shelter that the two of them aren’t shot at.

“It’s going to be a hospital, you said?” Connor looks at the sparse golden threads around them, seeing more infrared strands than ones in the visible human spectrum. The hum of the coral is faint, but present. “This isn’t the ideal location.”

“They’re going to make their next push near here. Clear out the area, set up defenses, and secure the streets. There’s a lot of people dying out here as the typhon advance.” Nines watches closely, his keen eyes tracking all of the equipment and artillery.

It may have taken them an hour to walk here, but it would take less to drive, and security would span a further distance. “This is too close to home,” Connor says. The military could easily set up a patrol through their own neighborhood. “Shit. That’s a lot of firepower. What do we do?”

“If they succeed, we’ll need to move. Markus didn’t like the idea when I brought it up earlier. Instability takes a toll on us, whether we see it or not. And…” Nines hesitates. “Our proximity to the coral is a danger to the humans. What we know, the others know, too.”

“They’re not reckless. They could coordinate a counterattack, but so many would die.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Nines asks.

Connor furrows his eyebrows. “Yes. They’re our kin. What I don’t get is why they haven’t coordinated anything yet.” The mimics and phantoms that they passed on the way here—along with one distant weaver—seemed entirely unconcerned with the situation, and that has him curious.

“It’s possible that they have. Whatever the case, we should be careful. Maybe you would have a better chance at convincing the others we should move.”

“I’ll give it a shot.” Connor takes a photo with his phone (which alerts him there’s no service, as it has for most of the day now), then pockets it again. “We’ll see how that goes. Do you…”

Connor pauses as a whisper flows across the coral. There’s a strong intent in it, though the details are incomprehensible. A drive, or maybe a passion… Something unusual for the rest of their kind. “Did you feel that?”

Nines steps back into the shadows. “I felt something. Let’s go.”

“Right. We’ve seen what we came here for.” Connor walks beside him, moving quickly. He wants to get out of here and away from danger, back towards what’s familiar and safe. Not so safe anymore, but it will settle his nerves.

The sense of urgency isn’t his alone, he realizes; it’s from the coral. The feeling sharpens, giving him the sense of a predator on the hunt, one with an intent not to feed, but to kill. It unnerves him and leaves him wondering where it’s coming from.

He sees it, then, from the eyes of many. A towering phantom, as tall as a single-story house, hunched over with claws trailing almost to the ground. It moves as nimbly as the rest of them through a sea of coral in the middle of an abandoned neighborhood. It moves with a purpose that Connor cannot identify, but he doesn’t need to.

In that direction, there’s a plethora of weak spots in the humans’ defenses. He knows this, and it’s quite possible that others know this, too, from his own incidental sharing of memories. It’s in their very nature to connect with the coral. Clever as they are, it would be easy to formulate a strategy, attacking weak areas to draw out the military, forcing them to either spread out or suffer enormous amounts of civilian casualties.

Connor recalls what Kara said before, identifying these large, hulking typhon as nightmares. It’s a fitting name, and no doubt one given by humans. If he had the capacity to consider it, he would ache for the misunderstandings between their species that lead humans to labeling them like animals.

He doesn’t have the time to think. There’s more than one of these nightmares prowling around, and the coral gives him flickers of canals, parks, and houses. It’s a planned assault. But he can only focus on the vision of the first, headed right for a neighborhood he left only that morning.

“Gavin,” he whispers, and he runs.


	9. Chapter 9

Sixty hears the nightmare before he feels it. 

The shriek carries across the city and chills him to his core. He’s drawn away from painting the walls of the house by a combination of dread and curiosity. The brush ends up on the floor, smearing purple paint, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever that sound is, it means danger.

He trudges out into the cool evening air until he finds where the coral is thick, out in a patch of woodland between two neighborhoods, the place overgrown with grass and weeds. He listens closely, waiting for information, while standing in the middle of a forest of gold.

It’s difficult to find exactly what he wants. He sifts through memories. The sound must have been a typhon—it sounded like one—which means he can probably glean something from the coral. He tries not to focus on the memories that come from humans; their consciousness can only be here if it was consumed by one of their own. Over time, he’s become desensitized to it, but he can’t help the pang that comes when he sees the memories of a small child who wandered outside alone. It almost makes him leave.

When he sees the image of the canals, his breath catches in his throat. He immediately foregoes his human appearance. His whole body shifts into the more familiar guise of a phantom, all gangly limbs and shifting mass. This way, he moves more quickly than a car, striding across meters in fractions of a second, not so much walking as he is moving through space the way his people do. That’s exactly what he does, moving as quickly as he can towards his destination, leaving him drained but crossing the miles within minutes.

The street is empty. Sixty stops along the familiar canals and hunches down behind the fence at the side of Hank’s house, peering through the slats. The silence should be a good thing, but he can see neither mimic nor animal, only coral stretching thinly across the road and the shadow of a human behind a window. 

It’s too quiet to be safe.

Movement catches his eye, a lumbering, dark figure, and he prepares to lash out if it gets too close to Hank’s front door. It lifts its head and opens its maws, displaying sharp teeth—

It’s a dog. A big, furry critter, one he’s seen pictures of plenty of times.

The front door opens. “Sumo!” Hank’s voice rings out in the silence. “In, now. C’mon, boy.”

It soothes him to see that Hank is well, but with every second that passes, he knows the nightmare comes closer. He feels it in the coral and the crackle in the air, a sensation of psionic energy with a strength befitting a typhon of that size.

“Go inside,” Sixty mouths, wanting them both to hide and hunker down for safety. Even a car wouldn’t get them away fast enough.

Footsteps retreat back into the house and Hank emerges with a shotgun in one hand. He reaches for Sumo, grabbing his collar with the other hand and trying to drag him inside, but the dog stubbornly refuses, pulling back with a growl.

The tension in the air feels like it could snap at any moment. 

“Get your ass inside, you goddamn—”

The nightmare steps into sight with a blur of motion at the end of the road.

“Run, Hank,” Sixty urges. The words gargle out of him, sounding warped and staticky, and Hank stiffens, head whipping around to look at him.

Shit. He can’t distract Hank, not now, but Hank’s looking between him and the nightmare, uncertain which is the more immediate threat.

Sumo whimpers and finally runs inside. Hank doesn’t. He’s been spotted already; it would be futile and he knows it.

Sixty bounds over the gate and runs forward, rushing past Hank to stop halfway between him and the nightmare, which lumbers forward leisurely now that it has prey in its sights. He takes a moment to steady himself, knowing that this thing could destroy him, but he can’t let Hank die. Not when he can do something about it.

The nightmare pauses as Sixty focuses his strength, the energy that he calls forth building in the air before him. It’s something he learned back in the labs but has never found use for until now. When it culminates in a burst of energy that startles the nightmare and frays its arm, he breathes a tense sigh of relief. At least he’s not totally incompetent.

It won’t keep the other typhon occupied for long. He darts forth on the heels of his attack and lashes out with his claws, gouging a deep wound into its leg. It reacts lightning quick despite its towering stature, knocking Sixty off balance, but he manages to run past it again, slashing at its back. The momentum carries him a few yards away.

There’s a crack—then two, then three—and when he turns around, Hank has his shotgun raised, the nightmare staggered before him. It gives Sixty the opportunity for another kinetic attack. He puts more energy into this one, enough that he can feel the strain like an ache across his whole body, and there’s a flash of light when he releases it.

The nightmare recovers quickly. It identifies Sixty as the greatest threat and lashes out with its own attack, quicker than he can track. He feels it before he registers what’s happening, like his whole body is being pulled apart, every single cell screaming in pain. Dully, he realizes he actually is screaming, the sound harsh in the quiet evening.

He pushes through the pain and staggers forward. Despite his nimble, effective attacks, and despite the aid of Hank’s shotgun (and oh, why won’t he run inside and stay safe?), he can’t evade every hit. Long, sharp claws dig into his flesh, leaving inky-black wounds behind. The force of each punch pushes him back, knocking him against a mailbox and then into the side of a parked car. He may have started with the upper hand, but now he’s on the back foot, each second looking bleaker than the last.

Hank unloads three more shots into the nightmare. Sixty takes his chance. He lashes out with all the raw strength he can muster, tearing and scratching and biting as fast and as hard as he can, digging into the most vulnerable places that have already been hit. 

The other typhon finally loses ground. It’s too injured to keep going, and by the time Sixty realizes it’s dead, chunks of its body are strewn all across the road. 

He hunches over, futilely trying to hold the gaping wounds across his abdomen together. All of him hurts, and while he doesn’t bleed, his injuries will take hours to heal, if not days. The frayed edges of his body hurt to touch. 

The sound of a gun being reloaded barely registers.

Suddenly, he’s in a world of pain. He scrambles to his feet, stumbling away, head feeling like it’s been ripped apart. Another shot hits him, bringing him to his knees. He curls in on himself, but it doesn’t do anything to stop the pain. 

“Why can’t you fuckers just go down easily?” Hank steps closer. Sixty can see chunks of black sticking to them, which could be from either himself or the nightmare. 

When Hank takes aim, Sixty’s mind struggles to process everything that isn’t pain. He looks up and sees the disgust and fear on Hank’s face. It isn’t right. Hank shouldn’t have to feel afraid at his own home, and it makes him sick to know that he’s part of the cause. 

He can’t run. He can’t fight without risk of hurting Hank. If he begs, Hank won’t listen, no matter how genuinely afraid Sixty is.

Sixty closes his eyes—what few that remain—and lowers his head.

Sumo starts howling. He bounds out of the house, his claws clacking on the pavement, and barks his heart out. He’s near both of them now, but the dog has to leave or he’ll get hurt. Sixty doesn’t want to be the cause of that, too.

“Go back inside!” Hank snaps, a hint of panic in his voice. “Don’t—No, c’mon, boy, come here, come back.”

Sumo whines while Hank tries to convince him to back off. Something wet and cool touches Sixty’s arm, and he starts at the contact, eyes opening hesitantly to see Sumo nudging at him with his nose. 

“Sumo, please. It’ll eat you.” Hank’s voice wavers. “Please.”

Sixty remains deathly still. If he moves, Hank might decide to shoot. 

The dog looks back at Hank, and when he raises the shotgun again, Sumo steps closer, pressing his flank against Sixty’s side.

Sixty does the only thing he can think to do. He expends the last of his energy on resuming a human appearance. It makes him dizzy, but he doesn’t stop, not until he looks mostly human. His head isn’t all there, but his hair is. When he blinks, he notices he has three eyes on the left side of his face. His abdomen has deep gouges and his limbs struggle to form the right shapes with so much damage. He feels precariously stitched-together. 

The way Hank looks at him, he feels like he should have kept his eyes closed.

They stare at each other until Sumo’s whines cease. The dog sits beside Sixty with his tail wagging, apparently pleased with the situation. The shotgun is no longer aimed right at him, instead pointed at the ground, but it remains in Hank’s steady grip.

“Hey, Hank,” Sixty says. He offers a smile with too many teeth. “Fancy meeting you here.”

His human form wavers, the fingers turning pitch black, and he corrects it, his hand resuming a perfectly human shape and color. 

That’s what takes up the last of his energy. He tips over, unable to remain upright, and everything fades to white.


	10. Chapter 10

Gavin’s neighborhood is under siege by the time Connor gets there.

It isn’t just the nightmare, which he can feel, close and stifling, despite it being some blocks away, as evidenced by the sounds and flashes of heavy military equipment. There are phantoms and mimics, too, crawling around the neighborhood, and another sort that drifts between them, less eager to get involved in the fighting. Soldiers shoot from behind barriers of shields, cars, and fences. As Connor slips past, he makes sure to do so while the turrets are otherwise engaged, shooting at his kin.

The coral is sparse here, but still present. He can sense the nearby typhons’ plans but not their pain. No matter what happens tonight, too many people will die.

He resumes a human form only a block away from Gavin’s place. Keeping houses between himself and the fray on the streets, he slinks along and checks his pistol. He only keeps enough bullets on him to make a getaway or scare someone off. A scramble like this is not something he’s prepared for.

He’s less prepared to see Gavin sheltered behind a car, reloading a shotgun. Alone.

“Gavin!” Connor calls out, jogging over to him. Gavin’s head whips around, but he barely pauses, finishing his task and readying his shotgun. Connor crouches beside him, his pistol at the ready. “What’s going on?”

“The fuck does it look like? And the fuck are you doing here?” Gavin grits out. There are a few cuts on his face and hands, small things, but enough that Connor knows he hasn’t gone unharmed. “Get inside. Keep yourself safe, damnit, don’t come running out here!”

Connor readies his pistol and scans the street further along. There’s two troops at either end of this street, methodically keeping an eye out for typhon. The six of them stand a better chance than if it were just himself and Gavin, though any of them could be in serious danger if any typhon slip between the houses. “It’s no safer inside than outside. I’ve got your back. Are you injured?”

The way Gavin looks at him says he wants to argue further, but they can’t waste time. “Couple scrapes. There’s less aliens than earlier. They’re following—” He’s cut off by the shrill shriek of the nightmare. “—that thing.”

“Did you see it?”

“Only a glimpse. It moves fast, same as all the others.” Gavin raises his shotgun, eyeing something across the street. “Garden hose.”

Connor spares a glance, only looking long enough to identify that there are indeed two garden hoses. He looks away right before Gavin shoots. By the way Gavin chuckles, he assumes the shot was a success.

He doesn’t have time to regret the loss of life. “Phantom. I’ll cover you.”

The phantom darts around the small barricade at the end of the road, easily evading the shots from the soldiers stationed there. They should be able to take it down with a few clear shots, especially with Connor’s help, but he needs to wait until it’s injured so as to not draw its full attention. It’s a slippery one, and with every move it makes, Connor expects either it or the soldiers to get hurt.

The nightmare sounds off again. Connor glaces to the side, but it’s still streets away. All he sees is a flash before the sound of a bang: The military’s engaged.

When he turns back, there are three phantoms.

Connor holds his breath. It takes only moments for them to down the soldiers, killing them with muted gurgles and the sickening sound of tearing flesh. He watches the brutality of his own kind and fervently hopes that he doesn’t ever see the same happen to Gavin. If he’s lucky, these three will respect him and leave both him and Gavin be.

“Con?” Gavin whispers. He’s watching something across the other side of the car, face pale.

Connor feels the intent through the coral and knows they’re not safe. “Three phantoms,” he says, and shoots.

Both of his shots hit, but they do little more than stagger the phantom. It’s a frightening experience to see them moving this quickly when he can’t do the same, though with every moment that passes he reevaluates whether he should shed this form. He shifts his stance as if he’s about to move in any direction, putting the phantoms on their guard, and Gavin shoots with a loud crack and a splatter of black gunk.

It doesn’t do much good. Connor shoots twice more, and the remaining two soldiers have joined them, but they don’t have the upper hand. Gavin’s next shot misses. The typhon dart between all of them, getting close up and lashing out before pulling back. One of them almost gets Gavin in the neck, but it takes Connor’s final bullet to push them back.

Another soldier goes down and he’s out of options.

Connor holsters his gun and watches them closely. One of them slinks off, needing time to recuperate, but the other two are going strong. He waits for an opening, a moment when their backs are turned—

They leave.

They slip away, abandoning the fight, and Connor follows them instinctively. He jogs after them, past the body on the ground, and he’s halfway across the neighbor’s lawn when he’s jerked back by the wrist.

“Connor!”

He blinks, standing still as if in a daze, Gavin holding his hand tightly. “Where the hell are you going, dipshit? They left, we need to regroup. Come on, let’s get moving.”

“I need…” Connor starts, but the words fail to come to him. Slowly, awareness dawns on him as he realizes he wasn’t moving of his own volition, that the powerful tug he feels is not his own desire, but part of the energy buzzing around him and through the coral.

When he looks at Gavin, he sees the blood on him, red and black alike, in the light of the streetlamps. “Hey,” Gavin says. His face softens, but the urgency remains. “We gotta go. C’mon.”

It takes a not insignificant amount of effort for Connor to take steps of his own accord. He lets Gavin guide him, holding on like a tether. Then the pressure dissipates all at once and Connor breathes in sharply.

They’re inside Gavin’s house.

“Still with me?”

Connor grimaces. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“We’ll be safer in the basement,” Gavin says. He rubs a bit of gunk off his cheek. There’s a bloody tear in the arm of his jacket.

“Do you have a first aid kit down there?”

“Yep. When all this shit started, I made sure to put enough down there so I could hunker down for a while.”

When they get down there, Gavin flicks on the lights and seats Connor on an old chair. There isn’t much clutter; it looks like the space was dedicated to laundry, tools, and a few storage boxes before it housed Gavin’s guns and spare essentials.

Gavin grabs a first aid kit off the washer. “Jacket off.”

“I’m not injured,” Connor says automatically. His legs and torso took a few swipes, but it’s hidden now under the facsimile of human skin. He gestures to a tear in his shirt, lined with black, and lifts it to show the smooth skin of his belly. “It got close, I’ll give you that.”

Gavin gives him a once over anyway and convinces him to remove the jacket, and only after that does he allow Connor to sit him down and look over his own wounds. Connor isn’t prepared for how hard it is to see him like this. It’s one thing to watch humans get maimed and killed, but horrific as it is, it doesn’t match the distress he feels at seeing Gavin’s injuries.

“I’ve had worse, and I’ve always given more than I got,” Gavin says with that grin of his, half-hearted though it is.

Connor runs his hands along Gavin’s torso, checking for wounds. The kevlar vest would help against glancing hits, but wouldn’t do much against targeted attacks. “Does anything hurt?”

“Nah. Maybe a bruise or two. Something got my thigh, but it’s my arm that’s gonna be a problem.”

“Are you certain?” Connor reaches for the kit as he asks. “It would be a damn shame if it’s an infection that got you in the end.”

“I’m a hundred percent. I’d tell you if I wasn’t. Not worth risking illness because of my pride. Besides, I trust you.”

“Why? Because we’re dating?”

“Because you’re human.”

“Right,” Connor says quietly. He forces a smile. “The dating thing probably helps, though, doesn’t it?”

Gavin pulls him in for a kiss. “It sure as shit does,” he says against Connor’s lips.

* * *

The sounds outside are quiet by the time they decide to venture up from the basement after checking out news reports about the area. Helicopter cameras show that typhon have been driven out from some neighborhoods and military presence is concentrating in those same areas. There’s a truck on the street outside Gavin’s house, visible from the front windows when they peek out from behind the curtains, and equipment is being set up at the end of the street.

It makes Connor nervous, both for his own safety and Gavin’s. They would both benefit from leaving, but Gavin’s convinced this is only a short-term measure for the neighborhood, and Connor can’t exactly walk out the front door.

“Quit pacing, you’re gonna give me a headache.”

Connor stalls. He turns to Gavin, sitting on the sofa with the TV on, some sort of helicopter angle on the news. “I’m sure you can understand my anxiety.”

“Walking in circles isn’t gonna do anything but wear down my carpet.” Gavin pats the cushion beside him in a clear invitation. Connor gives in and makes his way over, settling into the cushions with a sigh and leaning against Gavin. The news is background noise to Gavin’s heartbeat, the steady sound of which he uses to ground himself and focus on the immediate moment instead of his worries.

He just begins to relax when the camera zooms in on the roof of a building.

A man stands at the edge of the roof, a gun in one hand and his other arm holding onto a child. There’s a heavy SWAT presence on the roof and at least one body on the ground. The scene is unusual, even for a society like this driven to desperate measures, but as the camera focuses on the man as much as it can from a distance, it captures details that set this apart from any other recent tragedy.

His arm isn’t wholly flesh; it flickers between a pale skin tone and the unmistakable pitch black of typhon matter, corded in shape and with the boundaries ever-shifting. His face remains human, but black creeps along his skin like roots burrowing in. There’s no doubt that he isn’t human, and Connor knows that he’s kin. The pain on the man’s face and the level at which he’s able to mostly maintain his human form leave no doubt.

“...the first time we’ve seen a typhon mimic the guise of a human,” says the KNC reporter. “Specialists are on the scene with some of CyberLife’s latest technology to neutralize the alien. The gunman, Daniel Smythe, showed no indication of being anything but human and would often take jobs walking dogs or babysitting children, according to one of the Phillips’ neighbors. There is no information on any injuries at this time, but seven shots are reported to have been fired.”

Gavin scoffs. “You think this might be some kind of stunt?”

Connor doesn’t know what it is. A man took up arms for whatever reason, and while Connor can’t defend pointing a gun at a child, dread settles inside him at the idea of what people will think about this. A typhon living as a human, revealed to the world as a monster hiding among them. He worries about what that means for him. His family. Their safety, when humans know typhon could be lurking among their numbers. They’re hidden in plain sight, but not for long, if action is taken after this tragedy.

He doesn’t want to see one of his own get killed, no matter how terrible a person they are, and his stomach turns at the thought of the child getting hurt. “Turn it off.”

“I want to hear what they say. This is some wild shit.”

“I don’t want to see how it ends.”

It takes a moment, but Gavin turns off the TV before wrapping an arm around Connor. “We’ve been through some shit today, huh?”

“And we’ve made it through alive.” Connor looks at Gavin’s face, taking in every little detail, from the scars to the hair and the soft green of his eyes. Attachment isn’t new to him, but this fierce feeling that he wants Gavin to remain breathing for a very long time is. “I can stay up and keep an eye out tonight.”

“Good idea, but we’ll switch. You gotta sleep, too, and I don’t want to see you when you’re cranky and sleep-deprived.” Gavin kisses his forehead.

“Gavin…”

“Nah. Don’t fight me on this. Can’t watch my back if you’re yawning, can you?”

“Okay,” Connor says, “but you sleep first. I’ll set an alarm.”

“Deal.”

Connor holds Gavin close and closes his eyes. He has every intention of letting Gavin sleep through the night, and that’s exactly what he’ll do, leaving a note on the table promising that he’s okay and setting an alarm to go off only a short time after he takes off. He’ll slip out before the military finishes setting up, even if it pains him to leave Gavin on his own, because he won’t last long surrounded by so much anti-typhon technology.

As long as he’s careful, he’ll be back home by dawn.


	11. Chapter 11

Sixty lies across a couch in the dark. There’s a dim light somewhere nearby. The TV across from him has a blank, black screen. There’s garbage and a dirty glass on the coffee table. The furniture is unfamiliar. He suspects he took a nap after rummaging through a house, one of those in the red that hasn’t yet had electricity cut off. He’s completely exhausted.

The sound of glass clinking in the kitchen tells him he’s not alone.

The memories come back to him, fragmented and laced with pain, and he shudders. His mostly-human form is unstable, pale skin giving way to oily black tendrils. He brings a hand to his head and finds it intact. 

A glass clunks against wood with a dull sound. “You awake yet?”

Hank. Alive. Well enough to sound gruff.

“I kind of wish I weren’t.” He remembers the nightmare, followed by the bite of a bullet shattering his head. “Ow.”

Hank scoffs. “That’s what you’ve got to say about this? ‘Ow’?”

Sixty shifts on the sofa and slowly sits up. “Yeah,” he says, one hand going to his side as the movement aggravates the wound. “Shit hurts.”

Hank’s sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle of whiskey and a half-empty glass. In place of the shotgun, a revolver rests atop the table. The ceiling lamp above him casts dim light across the room, one of the bulbs burnt out, and the curtains are closed against the night.

“Are you really Sixty?” Hank asks. His face is stern. It doesn’t show all of his emotions, but he’s not doing a good job at keeping a lid on them, because he’s clearly distraught. Not drunk—not yet. “Or did you just take his face?”

“Jesus. I just grew my head back and you want to interrogate me?”

“I could shoot you again. Maybe then you’d be more receptive.”

The thought sends a spike of panic through him and he cringes. “I’d rather not, thanks.” He picks at a thread on the couch, stopping almost immediately when he realizes he’s doing actual damage with his claws. It isn’t worth the energy to try making his hands look human. “Think about it, Hank. What kind of human names himself Sixty?”

“Nicknames are a thing, pal.”

“Fine. I don’t want to play this game of proving my identity to you.” He cranes his neck, finding Sumo sleeping on his bed in the corner. “Sumo knew who I was. Isn’t his nose good enough for you?”

Hank shakes his head. “I don’t buy it. None of you slimy bastards can get anywhere in the city without being shot down.”

“We can if we look human. I’ve only known a few of us to do that, for the record. If we avoid places with automated defenses, we’re fine.” At this point, the cat’s out of the bag. There’s no point lying or obscuring anything. “We live like humans. My brothers and housemates, I mean. We’ve got whatever jobs we can get without a legal ID, we have a house, we have hobbies, and we spend time with friends. We don’t eat people, either. The coral can sustain us. So can hunting animals.”

Hank takes a slow drink from the glass, downing the last of the amber liquid and pouring himself another. “I met Connor before the invasion.”

“You know there were typhon on Earth before then. I’m sorry that you had to find out the way you did,” Sixty says. Connor told him on one of those late nights where they sat together wondering whether typhon did any good for the world. Just one more story of death among millions of others. “Has Connor ever been to the DPD with you?”

“No, why would he?”

“Has he ever walked past it? Visited one of the shops or restaurants there? Have you ever seen him anywhere in the vicinity of a turret?”

“That doesn’t prove anything, except that maybe you’ve been stalking him.” Hank sips again. Sixty hopes he looks human enough to earn some sympathy. “How many humans have you killed?”

Sixty croaks out a laugh. “Not ‘if’, but ‘how many’? Damn. Such little faith.”

Hank’s glare is cold. “How many?”

“No more than a few. I thought I had to, at first; I was a predator and humans were the ideal prey. That changed when Markus slapped some sense into me. Only two since then. Not to feed, but because they deserved it.” He takes a shaky breath. When he blinks, he realizes he has three additional eyes on the left side of his face. “How many have you killed?”

“Don’t turn this shit back on me,” Hank growls. 

“I guess it doesn’t matter. Putting people in prison cells at this point is hardly better than throwing them out for the mimics, but what do you care?”

“There’s only so much I can fix a broken system.”

“Yet here you are, holding it up while the city’s on its last legs.” Sixty grins crookedly. “I don’t think you’re a bad man, Hank, but you’re not better than me just by virtue of being human. You’ve got your own sins.”

“Mine don’t include senseless murder.”

“Funny, because you almost killed me.”

Hank downs the rest of the drink and slams the glass on the table. “Because you’re a fucking alien!”

Sumo whines from the corner and Sixty closes his eyes, lying back down on the sofa. “Then why haven’t you killed me yet?” he asks softly. “I’m injured. Vulnerable. And I refuse to hurt you.”

“Cause if I shoot, Sumo’s gonna howl, and all the neighbors are gonna think I put a bullet in my own head. Military might come in here and shoot the place up, too.”

“Sounds like you don’t actually want to kill me.”

The chair slides against the floor, creaking as Hank stands and walks closer. “I haven’t decided what to think of you yet. All I know is you look like something straight out of a nightmare.”

“Not a dream? Shame.” Sixty cracks his eyes open again to see Hank standing only a few feet away, revolver tucked into his belt. 

“You killed one of your own to save my life. Why?”

“I would’ve killed anyone else set on attacking you. Whatever kinship I feel with other typhon ends there. We’re not all mindless bees in a hivemind.” He chuckles. “Most of them are, that’s true. But they’re not the ones trying to integrate with human society.”

Hank narrows his eyes. “Is that your goal? Turn yourself into some sort of human-looking freaks like you’re playing house?”

“Sure. What’s wrong with that? We’re not allowed to make friends?”

“Seems like a shitty idea when all your buddies are out murdering people.”

Sixty could admit that Hank has a point, but that ship has long since sailed. What few of them there are can’t stem the tide of typhon violence. They don’t have politics, and even Markus’ ideals are too little, too late. Any meaningful change will be a long time coming, far too late for humanity. All they can do now is try to keep some humans alive for a little bit longer.

“You should leave,” Sixty says. There’s a waver in his voice that he blames on his unsteady form. “That wasn’t the only nightmare out there. For whatever reason, they wanted to get into your neighborhood, and I don’t think they’re going to back off.”

“And go where? Into the city, where the apartments are already packed? They’ll get there eventually.” Hank steps forward tentatively, and when Sixty doesn’t move, he leans in and reaches for Sixty’s head. 

Hank feels the human and inhuman parts of him, hand ruffling through the soft brown hair and—less confidently—touching the inky black of his true form. Sixty doesn’t move except to squint when he ventures too close to an eye. The exploratory touch is odd, but comforting in that it means Hank is not completely unnerved by him being what he is. By him looking as he does.

When Hank withdraws, his stance is no longer stiff. “Happy?” Sixty asks. 

“Is your head all back together now?”

Sixty makes an affirmative noise. Tenderly, he feels down his own abdomen, where his flesh is still knitting itself back together under his shirt. “Where the nightmare got me, that’s where it hurts most. It’s going to take a while for me to recover. Not that you didn’t get me good, too.”

“What’s the endgame with this nightmare thing?” Hank asks. He sits on the nearby recliner. “What does it want? Hell, what do all of you want? Why are you here in the first place?”

“I don’t know, I’m not a philosopher.”

“Don’t be coy,” Hank snaps.

Sixty turns on his side to better face Hank and groans from the pain. “Your guess is as good as mine about the nightmare. For typhon in general, you already know this. We consume consciousness; the more complex, the better. A city is like a buffet. No one wants to stop and say, hey, we’re wrecking something good here. We eat, multiply, and eat some more. I don’t know where we came from, because that doesn’t matter enough to share. Maybe we’re all across the galaxy. Maybe further. Or maybe we’re just rare anomalies that ended up at the right moon at the right time to hijack a spaceship.”

“Why didn’t they all come down as early as you did?”

They’ve been here for decades, Sixty knows now thanks to Kara, but that’s more than Hank wants to know. “Some did. They clearly weren’t prolific. Once the other test subjects on Talos I broke containment and took over the place, that was it. A few labs housed enough typhon to take over the world,” he says. He eyes the revolver. “Hank, you won’t survive if you stay out here. You don’t have the firepower. The military will help, but…”

“Maybe it’s just my time.”

“Bullshit!” Sixty winces, a wave of pain washing over him. His arms revert to his true form and he pulls them in on himself. “What’s the point of going down fighting if you’re not doing all that you can? You’ve got a city banding together and helping each other out, people who care about you, a place you belong—and you want to turn your head and put yourself in the fire? That’s no different than walking out there and asking to be killed.”

Hank sets his jaw. “Yeah, well, I’ve never been the pinnacle of bravery. Why shouldn’t I do exactly that?”

“Because you’ve got your dog to watch over, you asshole. You’ve got people who care about you, like Connor, and me, and whatever godforsaken friendship you have with Gavin.” Sixty grits his teeth, too frustrated to hold back. “You have the humanity that we envy. We can never have the life that you do. Your experiences, memories, feelings… All we experience is a mimicry of that. We don’t even know if our emotions are as real as yours. You don’t have that doubt. And Cole—”

“Don’t.”

“Your son died, Hank. And for what? For you to toss away your life? What does it do for his memory if you don’t fight every step of the way to keep yourself and others alive?”

“Don’t you say another goddamn word about him,” Hank warns.

“You’ve got a heart. You’ve got the will to live. You just need to commit.”

Abruptly, Hank stands, striding over to the kitchen. The clink of glass follows. “You’re a goddamn piece of work, Sixty.”

Sixty keeps his eyes wide open. He wants to commit this place to memory, as lived-in as it is, and he’s decided he doesn’t want to miss a second of his life. If Hank walks right back in here with the shotgun in hand, he’ll take the shot head-on. 

Part of him desperately wants Hank to apologize, to remain his friend and stay by his side. It’s a fierce emotion that surges up alongside the anger, which is fizzling out as Hank pours himself another glass.

The minutes are agonizing, until Hank says, “You’re right.”

At first, he isn’t certain he heard correctly. “What?”

“We got a shipment of weapons at the precinct. Shit we scrounged up after the military got first pick. Special stun guns and other tech from TranStar. Maybe KASMA or CyberLife, who knows. It would come in handy out here.”

“Not if your reflexes aren’t fast enough. You’ll never be safe if they’re out here.”

“There’s mimics in the city,” Hank points out. “Nowhere’s safe. But I’ll stand a better chance with the fancy tech.”

“Alright,” Sixty relents. If he had his way, he’d send Hank somewhere completely safe, far away from any of the violence. At least Hank has some sense of self-preservation left.

There’s a bit of shuffling in the kitchen. “Can you use painkillers?”

“Not really. I’d need a lot of them for them to have any sort of impact. I’m stuck with the pain until it mends.”

“Fuck.” A cupboard closes. “Nothing can speed that up, can it?”

“Coral. But if I leave, I can’t keep an eye on you,” Sixty says.

Reluctant as Hank sounds, he might be coming around. It eases some of Sixty’s stress to know he’s not about to end up a stain on Hank’s couch.

A few minutes later, the smell of coffee fills the place. Hank brings a cup to Sixty, pressing the hot mug into his hands, long and inhuman though they are. “Made it strong, just for you.” He hurries back to the kitchen, leaving Sixty on the sofa with his beverage.

It isn’t comfortable. There’s tension in the air, made worse by the situation right outside, and the nightmare could return at any moment. After the whirlwind that this evening has been, there is a tentative calm inside the house as Hank makes dinner and Sixty recovers on his sofa, and Sixty wants to hold onto that as long as he can.


	12. Chapter 12

Gavin knows something’s wrong when he wakes at dawn. For starters, his alarm has the wrong ringtone, playing some horrible song he never removed from his phone rather than the default he always uses. Connor was supposed to wake him so they could swap shifts, and that’s the thought that has him out of bed in no time. He’s dialing Connor before he’s even blinked the sleep from his eyes, praying that everything is okay. Why did he leave? What was he thinking? Gavin doesn’t even try looking for the guy in his house; his gut tells him that Connor’s not here, and if there’s anything he’s learned in the past few years, it’s that his instinct is rarely ever wrong.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

It doesn’t have to mean anything. Connor could be in a dead zone. In fact, that’s the most likely answer, but Gavin’s still halfway out the door before he notices the small yellow sticky note on the kitchen table.

_I’m okay. Sorry for taking off. Stay safe.  
Love you.  
_ _\- C_

It doesn’t reassure Gavin but there’s nothing he can do except hope Connor’s safe. “Fucking asshole,” he mutters even as his eyes run over the “Love you” a few more times, dedicating each stroke of the pen to memory. He proceeds to make coffee, pouring the water and replacing the filter with more force than necessary. With any luck, he’ll be able to find out later what the hell was going through Connor’s mind.

After a short argument with the military that ends with a stern command to park elsewhere when he returns, they let him drive his car down the street and off to work. None of the typhon returned overnight, but between the nightmare and that broadcast, these guys are jumpy. He makes his way to the precinct without further incident.

The radio informs him the girl didn’t make it.

Gavin pours some fresh coffee, boots up his computer, and sits at his desk all before realizing that there are yet again guests in the bullpen. Two suits in one of the meeting rooms. The doctor in the captain’s office, wearing a dress that looks like it costs more than his salary. Hank is absent; probably a late night with alcohol again. Gavin can’t blame him.

Tina’s at his desk before his first file is even pulled up. “So,” she says, leaning against it. “I heard shit went down in your neck of the woods last night. You get one of the big guys?” She looks over his face, no doubt checking the new cuts and bruises he’s got.

“You heard about it and didn’t text to see if I was okay? Tina,” he chides.

“I figured I’d wait to see the damage in person. Your face is as awful as always, so looks like you got out alright.”

“Very funny.” His arm aches but he keeps himself from scratching the wounds. “Did anyone we know get hurt? I haven’t checked the news. Only saw the shit with the little girl.”

“Jim Morris from Ninth.”

Gavin whistles. “He lost a leg not long ago, didn’t he?”

“Now he’s with his wife and kids again. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what he hoped for. I heard he became even more of an ass after they were killed, but then again, who hasn’t? We’re all fucked now. Anyway,” Tina says, tilting her head, “we’ve got another of our friends in holding. Might be a good test run for those alien tasers we just got in.”

“Already? That was fast.” Gavin cranes his neck back towards the holding cells and sure enough, there’s someone from CyberLife standing at the end of that hall, tapping away at their tablet.

“One of those phantoms got caught in a trap we just set up a couple blocks away behind the shuttered taco shop. Nonlethal, apparently. The captain insisted we keep it alive. If I had to bet, I’d say we could see another weapons shipment within the month.”

“Humanity’s on its last legs and the tools for our survival remain in the hands of capitalists. Christ.”

Tina chuckles and gives him a wry grin. “Did you think we’d go out any other way?”

“Good to see you made it here in one piece,” Ben says as he enters the room. The sleeve of his jacket is frayed at the end like it’s been torn off. He tips his travel mug towards Gavin. “Hank get here yet? He hasn’t called me back.”

“Nope,” Gavin says, spinning slightly in his chair. “Probably hungover again if he’s not still drunk.”

“Let’s hope. Tina, I need you with me for the case I forwarded yesterday. I just have to check in with the captain first.” Ben glances over at the glass office, unruffled by the CyberLife presence.

There’s a low shriek over from the holding cells and all three of them whip their heads around. It trails off into nothing before starting again. One of the CyberLife techs hurries over to the hallway, whacks on the glass, and shushes the phantom with a waver in their voice.

“You got it,” Tina says quietly. She pushes off from the desk and pats Gavin’s shoulder. “Catch you later.”

“Yeah,” Gavin says. He takes a deep breath to settle his racing heart.

The creature continues to intermittently whine and make other god awful noises. It grates on Gavin as he gets his office work done, and after an hour and a half of suffering through it, he’s ready to take off. He shuts off his computer, grabs another coffee, and gets ready to head out and see if there’s any humanity out there worth salvaging.

Curiosity gets the better of him. He takes two steps towards the exit then turns on his heel. The newly installed turret at the end of the hall—which somehow does not make him feel any safer—beeps softly in acknowledgement of a human presence when he passes it. He walks up to the glass of the holding cell and looks at the beast within.

It ceases its restless complaints and stares straight at him with its many glowing white eyes. Twelve of them, or so Gavin’s heard; it’s hard to count them when the creature’s form is ever-shifting. Its spindly fingers fidget without purpose. Gavin expects it to leap at him, screaming and scratching at the glass, but it doesn’t do anything, only tilting its head as if it were curious.

The phantom presses its palm against the glass.

“Okay, buddy,” Gavin mutters. He turns to walk away and the creature makes another low sound that sends shivers down his spine. He feels it watching him as he leaves, and he glances back over his shoulder to make sure it’s still in its enclosure. The turret will shoot if it manages to get out, but Gavin knows better than to trust that a few bullets will do this thing in.

The lack of clear aggression unnerves him. A beast would be raging at the bounds of its cage, screaming and fighting until it gained an inch. An intelligent creature would wait for the right opportunity and bide its time. Gavin’s not about to fool himself; the one on the rooftop can’t have been the only one of its kind. Not to mention that CyberLife wouldn’t be interested in any old phantom. There’s plenty around; why this one?

He doesn’t have time to worry. Chances are that CyberLife will have taken it away by the time he gets back and then it will be business as usual. On his way out, he waves at Chris, who’s fussing over a stack of disorganized files and a cardboard box, and he pretends not to feel Doctor Stern’s gaze

* * *

Hank’s developed a love-hate relationship with overtime. If he’s going to die, he doesn’t want to waste his scarce time to enjoy what’s left of this life. Neither does he want to selfishly spend his time alone and with a bottle, dead to the world while his heart’s still beating. Now he’s torn in a new way: His protective instincts urge him to return home and nurse Sixty back to health while simultaneously insisting he investigate the typhon in the holding cell.

There’s no doubting that it’s a clever one. The way it looks at him and mournfully calls out when left alone wrenches his heart in a very confusing way. It shouldn’t be any more than an evil monster out to get them, but then, that’s what the world looked like when he took this job. Sixty’s existence has had him thinking, rethinking, and overthinking everything, and going on two hours of sleep isn’t helping.

He takes a generous shot from the flask under his desk and approaches the typhon. Everyone’s either gone for the evening or out enforcing curfew, leaving Hank as the only one left, staying late with some excuse about his backlog of reports. CyberLife scheduled the typhon to be transported in the morning, apparently having to pull some strings or fill some purses to get the military to assist with transport. The place feels creepy as hell with no one around except the phantom shifting around back here, but at least it’s stopped with the whining.

Hank crosses his arms and leans back against the wall opposite the cell. The typhon stands tirelessly as it has all day and meets his gaze. Hank’s normally good at waiting for the other party to speak first, but aliens put him way out of his depth.

“What’s your name?” he asks. His voice holds steady but his heart beats fast.

The phantom makes a noise that sounds more like acknowledgement than a name, and Hank says, “I can’t exactly pronounce that. Or do you not have a name? I know you guys aren’t all the sociable sort.”

It steps forward, face against the glass, and purposely looks toward the turret at the end of the hall.

“No can do,” Hank says with a shrug. “I could disarm it, but I won’t. I gotta say, I wouldn’t want to be carted away for experimentation either, but you guys kind of caused an apocalypse. I know a grand total of one of you that wouldn’t eat my face on sight.”

The phantom places both hands on its own chest in a morbidly charming gesture and Hank laughs. “Okay, you’re not chomping at the bit, but I'm not convinced. Come on. You seem pretty tame. You got a face you put on during the day? Some flesh suit you wear to play house?” It steps back and Hank continues. “I’ve seen two of those, you know. One of them killed a kid on national television. You guys do fucked up things, but that was a new one. The other guy’s asleep on my couch. Long story. So,” Hank says, stepping forward and clapping his hands together. “Let me ask again: Who are you?”

The typhon hesitates, then shuffles to the side. Into the camera’s blind spot, Hank notes. He’s prepared for the shimmer of skin over shifting flesh, but despite his suspicions, the wind gets knocked out of him when he sees Connor emerge from the transformation.

The last of the white eyes fade into pale human skin and Connor’s hard brown eyes meet his. “Good evening, Hank,” he says, reaching up to adjust his tie.

Hank runs a hand down his face. Of course it’s Connor. Of course Sixty was telling the truth. “You were an alien all along, huh? Can’t believe I never suspected it.” It’s hard to reconcile the freckled skin and familiar face with the abomination that stood there mere seconds ago.

“We were science fiction to you only a few years ago. It didn’t seem tactful to tell you while my brethren were killing yours. You might’ve shot me.” The edge of Connor’s mouth lifts but his eyes remain stern.

“Yeah, well. You’re not wrong.” Hank runs over a few paths in his mind, weighing the risks and rewards, but none of them leave him feeling positive about anything. “Heard you got caught in a mousetrap.”

“I didn’t think to look out for any new tech since everyone was occupied with the nightmares. Guess that’s going to be my downfall,” Connor says quietly. He looks over Hank like he can see right through him. “You’re not surprised. Who told you?”

“Sixty. He’s healing up after brawling with one of those nightmares. Saved my life, actually. Even if he hadn’t mentioned you, I can put two and two together.” He’s very aware of the nearby security camera, but the turret’s the real problem. If he were to use his override, they’d know it was him.

Does he even care anymore?

“He’ll be okay?”

“He looks better, at any rate. Look, I’m not gonna lie. I’m definitely pissed off about this whole situation, but we don’t exactly have much time. I need you to fry the cameras.”

Connor balks. “You want to get me out of here? You’ll lose your job!”

“It’s been a long time coming.”

“I can’t ask you to—”

“To do what, Connor? To quit hunting down criminals? It’s not worth it anymore. We’re all gonna die in the next few years anyway,” Hank says grimly.

“You do good for the people of this city. You save lives, you help kids out of bad situations. Don’t give that up just for me.”

“If I wanted to help this city, I’d enlist. I wouldn’t run around putting humans in cages and ignoring the fucking apocalypse. I don’t know what I’m going to do next, if I even live long enough to make that decision. Now cut the fucking camera.”

The expression on Connor’s face is unreadable. He reaches out with one arm which shifts into a monstrous, alien thing, well in sight of the camera, then a static whine sounds. Once Connor resumes a fully human form, Hank takes a deep breath and presses his hand to the pad outside the cell, unlocking it.

“I’ll cover the turret,” Hank says, standing in front of it. The sensor won’t identify anything but the material of his jacket and a human heat signature.

“I’m an alien. Not an innocent one,” Connor says. He looks towards the front entrance, but Hank motions for him to head for the back instead. “I thought you’d want me dead.”

“You’re also my friend.” Hank swallows past the knot in his throat. Connor’s a good man; Hank isn’t betraying Cole’s memory by helping him. He isn’t betraying humanity by saving the life of one friendly alien among millions of murderous ones. Connor is one of the few bright points left in his world and Hank’s not ready to let him die.

Hank follows once Connor begins down the steps towards the evidence locker. A high-pitched buzz follows them as Connor fries the surveillance cameras along the way.

After a detour to steal a few weapons—just enough to assure Hank that he could survive a scuffle with a phantom—they take off out the back and reach Hank’s car almost without incident. One of the turrets out back catches sight of Connor, and though the bullets it shoots make Hank’s heart leap into his throat, they get through the parking lot unscathed and the turret settles down.

Hank doesn’t breathe easy until they’re miles away. He finds an empty street and parks along the curb. A small light is on outside a club further down the road and he knows that means they’re open against lockdown orders. Otherwise, it looks like a ghost town. The silence unsettles him, but that’s what happens with a curfew like this.

“You shouldn’t drive while under the influence, Lieutenant.”

A laugh bubbles out of Hank, dissipating as quickly as it began. “Not a lieutenant anymore. I’ll be fired the moment they review access records.”

“What’s next for you?” Connor asks. He turns towards Hank, eyes catching the soft light of the moon, and it’s then that Hank realizes there are wisps of coral floating at the end of the street, their orange-gold glow bright in the darkness.

“Finding the answer to that question. What about you? Where will you go, Connor?”

“I have a lot to think about myself.” Connor offers a hand and shakes Hank’s with a firm grip. “Thank you, Hank. If we don’t see each other again, it’s been an honor to know you. Your friendship has meant the world to me.”

“Hey. You won’t get rid of me that easy.” Hank grins and pushes down the mess of emotions inside him. “Besides, I’ve still gotta drive you home.”

“It isn’t safe for you out there. None of the other typhon mind me unless I hurt them. I’ll be safe as long as I avoid the military.” Connor opens the door and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Take care of Sixty for me, okay?”

“Yeah,” Hank says. Tears prick at his eyes. “I promise.”

Connor turns back long enough to give Hank a salute before seeming to step into the wind, disappearing in a blink.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can find me on Twitter as @gildedfrost (18+), and I spend time in the [New ERA](https://discord.gg/2EKAAz3) DBH Discord server as well! There's a channel on the server to chat about my works :)
> 
> Art based on this fic:  
> [Typhon Sixty or Connor](https://twitter.com/ausp_ice/status/1302726555697778688) collab by Auspice and myself  
> [Sixty with coffee](https://www.deviantart.com/ausp-ice/art/Typhon-Sixty-BLM-Donation-Commission-847144793) by Auspice ([Twitter link](https://twitter.com/Ausp_ice/status/1277745331933900801))  
> [Connor in the park](https://www.deviantart.com/ausp-ice/art/Omen-835305052) by Auspice ([Tumblr link](https://ausp-ice.tumblr.com/post/613699226799570944/))  
> [Typhon Nines](https://twitter.com/Ausp_ice/status/1352324104200757248) by Auspice  
> [Hank and Connor](https://twitter.com/Eris_Stargon/status/1362546335401074697?s=20) by Eris Stargon


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